42
Back in his office, Paul logged on to his computer, the conversation about quantum cryptography still swirling in his mind. Lucky for him, Dalfan computers weren’t quantum encrypted yet, but getting past the conventional encryption on the Dalfan drive was still going to be a challenge.
His handler, Bai, was situated at his desk, occasionally casting an eye on Paul but mostly paying attention to his own computer screen and grabbing refills of hot tea. Paul was a man of routine and he appreciated the routines of others, including Bai’s, and a few days of observation told Paul that after his third cup of tea, Bai would be heading to the restroom — which he did.
As soon as Bai cleared the bathroom door, Paul casually inserted into his laptop the Dalfan USB he was allowed to use while on premises. Paul knew that Gavin’s program would grab the encryption code on the Dalfan drive. Then all he’d have to do was load the Dalfan encryption passcode onto Rhodes’s drive and he’d be in business.
Gavin’s instructions said it would take several minutes to effect the capture but that his program would do the work automatically in the background. Paul wasn’t quite as worried about getting caught on this leg because he was authorized to have and use a Dalfan USB drive. He was just waiting for the dialogue box to appear that read CAPTURE COMPLETE before he could breathe a sigh of relief.
Four minutes and counting.
After hearing Dr. Heng’s discussion of an unhackable network, Paul was now glad he was part of the CIA’s effort to ensure that China wasn’t stealing this technology from Dalfan or finding a back door into America’s defense establishment. It made him feel that his mission was even more important than he had realized.
He just hoped he was up to the task.
The CAPTURE COMPLETE dialogue box appeared. Paul clicked it away just as Bai came through the door. He’d have to wait to try and load the encryption code onto the CIA drive until later. Not a problem. He still had more than twenty-four hours to meet the deadline.
Easy as pie.
Jack and Paul drove the short distance back to their guesthouse in silence, the Dalfan security team that Jack had ditched earlier clearly in tow.
“Something wrong?” Jack finally asked as he turned onto their street.
“No. Why?”
“You’re awfully quiet. I figured something was bothering you.”
“Just thinking, that’s all.”
Something was bothering him, but Paul didn’t want to share. When he was finishing up his work at Dalfan he suddenly realized he had messed up his calendar.
Because they had flown halfway around the globe, they were technically on a different day in Singapore at the moment than they would’ve been back home. But home was really his reference point, and that meant today was his wedding anniversary.
The icy grip around his heart was tightening fast.
“Anything you want for dinner?”
Paul hardly heard him. “What? Oh, no. Not really.”
“I might just fix a sandwich, then. You can eat when you’re hungry.”
“Works for me.”
Jack parked the car as the electric gate swung closed behind them, and they headed for the house. The Dalfan security team parked at the curb, determined to not let Jack shake them loose again.
Jack wound up boiling water and making himself a bowl of ramen noodles — a flashback to his college days. As terrible for his body as they were — nothing but processed carbs and powdered chicken broth loaded with who knows what chemical compounds — the flavor was comfortingly familiar and he could use the carb boost for what he had planned tonight.
While Jack was pouring himself a glass of cold unsweetened tea from the fridge, Paul fetched a bottle of Bushmills from the pantry. He tossed the first glass down and poured a second.
Jack wanted to say something but held off. Paul’s soft eyes had turned to dark wounds in the last few minutes, and he shuffled around the kitchen as if Jack weren’t even there — or maybe it was Paul who was somewhere else. Jack needed to talk to him at some point about the drinking. Paul could definitely hold his liquor, but in the last few days he’d increased his intake considerably. It couldn’t be from stress — what the hell was there for him to be stressed about? So he must be battling an addiction, Jack reasoned, or a demon — a battle he was clearly losing at the moment. He’d talk to him tomorrow. Tonight he had other plans.
Jack rinsed his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then scrambled upstairs. He changed into a pair of black jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, a pair of boots with thick laces, a dark raincoat, and a black-and-purple Baltimore Ravens ball cap. He checked his watch. It was 7:18 p.m. According to Google, sunset tonight would be at 7:21 p.m., and a glance outside his window told him much the same thing. It also confirmed his two Dalfan handlers were in their Range Rover, parked against the curb.
Time to get going.
Jack headed back downstairs and into the kitchen, where he found Paul at the stove, scrambling eggs. That was a good sign.
“Smells good,” Jack said.
“Want some?”
“Already ate, but thanks.” Jack put his hand on the back door, the busted doorjamb recently repaired.
“Where you headed?”
“Back to the warehouse. I need to see what’s inside.”
“I thought they wouldn’t let you in.”
Jack smiled. “I made the mistake of asking for permission the first time.”
“Be careful — and don’t get caught.”
“I will, on both counts. First thing I need to do is ditch our friends out front.”
Paul spooned his scrambled eggs onto a plate. “And call me if there’s a problem.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Paul glowered at Jack. Something violent stirred behind those pale gray eyes. It caught Jack off guard, but he ignored it.
Too much to do.
43
Jack dashed for the garage, careful not to make too much noise. Gerry had told him this was a strictly white-side mission and that he wouldn’t need any tools of the trade for his black-side work, but tonight he felt the need to take a few things along. He found a toolbox and quietly rifled through it, pulling out a couple pieces and pocketing them.
He suddenly got the feeling he was being watched, and he checked the corners of the garage for remote cameras but didn’t see any. The Dalfan security team was making him jumpy. He shrugged it off.
Jack stepped outside, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible, just in case the crew out front had their window down and might hear the noise in the backyard and get curious.
He scaled the painted concrete wall facing the property in the rear. He crossed through the neighbor’s yard onto Goodman Street, which ran perpendicular to Crescent Road, where the Dalfan team was parked and, he hoped, still oblivious of his movement.
Jack headed west along Goodman, past a series of beautifully maintained homes, a blend of traditional, modern, and ultramodern middle-class dwellings, all fronting a tree-lined school of some sort. He could’ve been in a suburb of Los Angeles or Dallas — only the occasional Buddha statue, Singapore national flag, or cars driving on the other side of the road would have told him otherwise.
He walked swiftly but was careful not to run or draw attention to himself, and he kept his face down and away from any prying cameras, but not so down that he appeared suspicious in the prosperous suburban neighborhood. He didn’t want to look like he was casing the joint or running from the cops, and he assumed the Singaporeans organized vigilant neighborhood-watch programs like they did back in the States.
When he arrived at the corner of Goodman and Broadrick he pulled out his phone and tapped the Uber icon he’d registered under an alias and linked to an untraceable Campus credit card.