The Lucy Ghosts

The file, an archive on Russian troop movements in Poland in 1951, spilled its information onto the screen, green type on a black background. When the screen was full, it started to break up, the letter 'a's disappearing first, then the 'b's and so on.

'One.' The programmer started his count.

The breakup of words continued.

'Two.'

No change.

'Three.'

The 'c's started to disappear.

Tucker stood up and walked away. It was like waiting for a rocket launch. He looked out of the small, glass walled room into the main area where the Communications section went about their normal business. It was a quiet day, but then things had died down a lot since the dawn of perestroika. Occasionally, when a crisis like the Gulf War exploded, things got busy again. He turned back towards the programmers.

'Eight.'

The virus was busily destroying the 'g's.

'Nine.'

The 'h's started to fade.

'Ten.'

Nothing happened. The 'h's turned to 'i's turned to 'j's.

The programmer counted till twenty before they had reached the 'r's.

'Crash the programme,' said his companion.

The counter reached forward and switched off the power; the screen went to black.

'Shit!' cursed Tucker.

'Exactly.'

'What next?'

'No idea. That's the sixtieth antidote we've introduced. I can't think of any more. From now on we'll have to design our own. Only trouble is, I don't know what the key is, what they've used for their code. The only way we'll get that is by letting the virus run. By the time we've tested it, got into the binaries, we could've lost most of the data.'

'We can't risk that. I've got to get to a meeting.' It was one that had been hurriedly called and he had received no papers on it. That meant it was an emergency, a crisis brewing. He hoped he could get home to Jean and the kids tonight. 'You're just going to have to go on, try and find another way into the system.'

'How important is this?'

'Top priority. You know that. Why?'

'Tomorrow's Christmas Day.'

'You're lucky. I hear the commissary serves a good turkey brunch.'

He grinned as he left the room, the howls of protest ringing in his ears. Welcome to Langley, boys.

* * *

The Office of Communication comes under the responsibility of the Deputy Director for Administration. He is also responsible for Medical Services, Internal Security, Finance, Education, Training, Information Technology, Logistics, Information Services and Personnel.

The virus had now, also, become his responsibility.

He and the Deputy Director for Intelligence had met with the Executive Director to resolve the problem. The DDI's accountability was for European Analysis as well as his many other functions, which meant he was in charge of all counter-intelligence.

'It's not my fucking computer that's fucked up,' argued the DDI. He was a man known for his blunt manner, a brute who ruthlessly steam-rollered his way through any obstacle that stood in his path. Because of this single minded purpose, and a natural cunning that came from his years in the field, he was one of the most successful DDIs the Agency had ever had. 'If you ran internal security as efficiently as you run the fucking kitchens maybe we wouldn't be in this fuck up.' The DDI was also well known for his hatred of all administrators, especially the Deputy Director for Administration.

'Personal attacks are not going to resolve this situation,' answered the DDA.

'Tell that to the poor shits out in the field. Tell them how you're going to resolve the fucking situation. That's if they're still alive to be told.'

'Let's not exaggerate. We've lost one, possibly two, assets. In Lapland and in Germany. That's not …'

'We also had an attempt on one of our top scientists.'

'We don't know that for sure.'

'Come on. Guy runs up, pulls a gun out and peppers away at one of our top people. Don't fucking tell me that's not for sure.'

'That point has yet to be proved,' interjected the Executive Director. He was the senior executive, below only the Director of Central Intelligence and his Deputy. 'Is Trimmler home now?'

'Yeah. We flew him straight out once we'd heard what happened. He's in San Diego, safe at home.'

'And Reindeer?'

'Also nothing. He left no messages, nothing except a wife who's only worried about her pension.' He turned to the DDA. 'I hope you've resolved that issue.'

'Of course.'

'We haven't had time to get anything on West Wing. I've got people on it. But my gut tells me it'll be as fruitless as Reindeer. Damn it, these guys were sleepers. They were there only to be activated in the event of an emergency. They looked after themselves, were cut off from us. They just knew we'd look after them and their families if anything happened. Since the end of the Cold War, they've become an embarrassment. We don't know what to do with them. Can't pull them out because we might need them, can't leave them there because we could get found out and end up with egg on our face. We don't even know who, or where half of them are any more. Not without that fucking computer.'

'I can't see it being the Russians,' said the Executive Director.

'Why not?'

'Too much to lose.'

'Unless they're up to something.'

'Something so important that they're taking out everyone over sixty. I don't think so. Anyway, there's another point which we should resolve first. One much closer to home.'

His two deputies looked at him, waited for him to continue.

'The only way that virus could be introduced into the system was by someone at Langley. I accept that we're having trouble finding out how to control it. But I also think it's time we concerned ourselves with who put it in there, and also how deep that person, or persons, went into the data base. It could just be that we don't have any secrets left. Could just be that they were milked out a long time ago.'

* * *

Carter, the DDA's assistant, was alone in the meeting room when Phil Tucker walked in.

The two men had met a week previously when Tucker had made the first report on Reindeer and the computer virus.

'Hi!' greeted Tucker. He didn't like Carter, found him too aggressive in his manner, but appreciated they all had to live together and at least appear to be one big happy family at Langley. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'Anybody else coming?'

'The DDA.'

'Big guns.' Tucker became alert, he hadn't expected the Deputy Director of Administration to attend.

'And the DDI.'

'Heavy stuff.' Tucker was impressed. He had never attended a meeting with two Deputy Directors before.

'Did you take the call about West Wing?'

'Yeah. I was on duty.'

'That's two now. Him and Reindeer.'

Tucker realised why he didn't like Carter. A stater of the obvious. Hard headed, with not a lot between the ears. 'I heard there was an attempt to knock out one of our top scientists.' He decided to push for information.

'Jungle fucking drums. That's classified.'

'That he was on vacation in France.' Tucker pushed harder. 'Some guy just came along the beach and popped him.'

'Where'd you get this crap from?'

'Like you said. Jungle drums.'

'Who?'

'Someone. I overheard it when I was waiting in line at the commissary.'

'Don't bullshit me, Tucker.'

'I'm not going to tell you who said what. It's common knowledge anyway. I need to know. Especially if it's all related to Reindeer and West Wing.'

Carter thought for a moment and then sat down.

'What I tell you is for your ears only,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'I don't even want the DDA to know I said anything. If they want to tell you, that's up to them.'