The Portal (A Delphi Group Thriller Book 2) (22 page)

As usual, her voice was irritatingly loud, the product of her long-standing iPod addiction. Grimes had seriously wondered if she ever turned the thing off. He’d once joked to colleagues that she’d had the buds surgically attached to her ear canal.

Grimes looked across the river before sitting down. A Boeing 777 descended gracefully toward the tarmac at Reagan National, its wings moving gently back and forth. The big bird eventually settled on the runway, its rear wheels hitting with a jolt, followed by the front. Even from this distance, he could see the wing flaps slowing the plane as it cruised toward the terminal.

He smiled. It never got old.

Grimes finally turned, plunked down in his seat, and unlocked his screen saver. As he waited for the system to go through its protocols, he took another sip of coffee and thought about the new task he’d been assigned. It was something he’d never done before, and he was only doing it now because the two people usually responsible for it were both on vacation. He didn’t anticipate any problems though. The software would do most of the work for him.

Grimes double-clicked on the program icon. It was called Sweeper, the DIA’s newest tool in what Grimes referred to as World War III, the battle for global electronic supremacy. Sweeper was the most powerful etool of its kind, able to scan email and other communications for suspicious keywords or contacts. What separated it from similar software was its ability to find links between literally trillions of pieces of information, unwinding confusing trails that would take thousands of man-hours if attempted manually.

A login screen appeared, and Grimes entered his sixteen-digit password and answered three random security questions. His fingers moved without hesitation, snapping across the keys like a concert pianist.

His task was to search through all communications of individuals associated with hundreds of ongoing operations throughout the US intelligence community. The purpose was two-fold: make sure no one associated with those missions was working for the enemy, and make sure the enemy hadn’t somehow penetrated communications networks. The ultimate goal was to ensure the integrity of each mission.

The manual Grimes had read the night before recommended analyzing a half dozen operations at a time, so Grimes checked off the first six that came up and pressed Start. A box appeared, and inside it a series of numbers began to spin, indicating the amount of data being processed. Simultaneously, a green bar filled from left to right.

While Sweeper did its work, Grimes grabbed his Nationals cup and swiveled around in his chair. The early-morning sun reflected off of the blue waters of the Potomac. Several outboards raced by along the near shore, while a tourist cruise boat chugged in the opposite direction.

He took a long sip of coffee and allowed his mind to chew over the events from the night before. How much longer would he be single? A part of him enjoyed the dating game, the excitement of meeting new women, but the years seemed to be passing at hypersonic speed now. And the older he got, the smaller the pool of potential mates. In his midtwenties he’d laughed at his parents’ concern that he wasn’t involved in a serious relationship. But he wasn’t laughing anymore. In fact, while he was reluctant to admit it, he’d truly been hoping that Rachel would turn out to be more than a pretty face.

A loud ding caused Grimes to stiffen. It was too early for Sweeper to have finished. Based on everything he’d read, an analysis of six operations should take anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes.

He spun his chair around and scooted closer to the monitor. A box had appeared in the center of the screen. Leaning closer, he read the information displayed.

Mission Name: Operation Green Beacon

Location: South America

Mission Objective: Classified - Access Denied

Agency: Classified - Access Denied

Contact: Director of the CIA

Comments:
Issues of Concern Detected

Operation Green Beacon?
He wasn’t familiar with it, but that wasn’t surprising. What
was
surprising was that it had denied him access to any further information. Grimes had the second-highest level of clearance in the government. Theoretically the only missions he didn’t have clearance for were ones that could only be seen by fewer than five eyes, including the President and the DNI. Those were the blackest of black ops. Soot black, he called them.

Grimes clicked on
Issues of Concern Detected
. His cursor transitioned to an hourglass as the software retrieved the requested information. Seconds later, an email account was referenced on the screen. He glanced at the details displayed. The account seemed innocuous enough, having been established using a major ISP right here in the US. So far nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He leaned forward and double-clicked on the account, which he assumed was owned by someone on the Operation Green Beacon team. The name had been blacked out to protect their identity.

Strangely, there were only twenty or so emails in the Inbox. That alone was a red flag. Who kept their Inbox that clean? As he examined the subject lines, he realized that most, if not all, of the messages were spam. An advertisement for cheap sexual performance pills, another peddling a scheme to make a thousand dollars a day working out of your home.

The absence of any meaningful emails did seem a bit suspicious, but was that the only reason it had been flagged? Was there something else? And then it hit him. How could he have forgotten Sweeper’s most important feature? Grimes used his cursor to access a drop-down menu at the top of the screen. He looked at the various choices and selected Highlight Suspect Items. A flash of red appeared immediately on the left side of the screen.

The draft folder.

When he opened it up, there was one email. He double-clicked on it. Empty.

Grimes smiled. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and still one of the most effective. It was a way of communicating without having to send messages across the Internet, where they could be snatched up by law enforcement or the intelligence community. Instead, two or more parties would establish an email account. All parties would have the login information and could access the account from anywhere in the world. If one member of the group wanted to communicate something, he or she would login and create an email. Then, instead of sending it, they would simply save the email into the draft folder. That allowed others to sign in and read the same message at their convenience. Once the message was read by all parties, it would be deleted.

So Sweeper had found the suspicious email in the draft folder, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was malevolent intent. Every day thousands of people across the planet started emails only to be interrupted before they could actually send the message.

So how should he proceed? Grimes tapped his teeth with a pen, sifting through ideas like a data processor.

Bingo.

Grimes opened the Sweeper drop-down menu again, asking it to search for the IP addresses of those accessing the account. About a minute later, several addresses displayed on the screen. He clicked on the first one and noted the geographic location. It was a medium-sized city in the United States, probably the location of the mission team operative. Nothing unusual about that, at least not on the surface.

Grimes then clicked on the second IP address. As he read the information, he frowned. Why would someone be accessing the account from there? Needing more information about the location, Grimes toggled over to Google Maps and entered the specific address. When the pertinent information came up, the blood rushed from his face. He could scarcely believe what he was reading.

His heart pounding, Grimes snatched up a headset, securing it over both ears. Then he accessed a secure line via his computer.

After two rings, a female voice spoke in his headphones. “Central Intelligence Agency. Secure Line Operator. How may I direct your call?”

THE ORACLE SENT a text and then leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. “Keiko, be glad you’re not married.”

The humanoid looked up from her chair in the corner of the office. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Unfortunately there is,” he said, tossing his phone onto a pile of folders on his desk. “It’s Helen’s birthday—”

“Her birthday is not until Friday,” Keiko said. “She was born in—”

The Oracle held up a hand. “I know, I know, Keiko. That’s not what’s important here. We were going to celebrate it tonight, and she’s not happy about my plans.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently the grand opening gala for the new Mars wing of the Air and Space Museum isn’t good enough for her.”

Keiko tilted her head. “You were going to tour the new wing of the museum on her birthday.”

“Look, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s one of those fancy schmancy gala dinners with champagne, gerbil food, classical music… all those things she
says
she loves. Only apparently now she doesn’t!” He lifted his hands in the air.

“Sir, might I suggest—”

“Any other time she would’ve been elated. It’s her kind of thing. I’m telling you, the only time Helen doesn’t want to go to one of these events is when I plan it. The woman is insufferable!”

“I think—”

“In fact, I can’t tell you how many times she’s complained that we don’t do the DC social circuit. No cocktail parties, she says. No summer concerts at the art gallery, she says.” He glared at the phone, as if somehow Helen were still there on the other end. “I’ll never understand women, Keiko.”

Keiko blinked twice and said, “Sir, if you’re willing, I’d be happy to help you with the arrangements.”

“You know, if she had only told me…” He looked up at Keiko. “I’m sorry?”

“I’d love to help you arrange your date with Mrs. Ross. Brett gave me some special programming for this type of thing.”

“Foster did
what
?”

“He programmed me with information regarding the psychological motivations of both men and women, and more specifically how they apply to dating in the modern world.”

The Oracle lifted an eyebrow. “He asked you to do that, did he?”

“Yes, sir. He also asked me to download a database of restaurants and a calendar of special events in the DC area.”

“I’ll have to speak to him about this when he gets back.” Ross leaned forward and placed his arms on the desk. “So you really think you can help me?”

“I know I can, sir. I can run a diagnostic report on your wife that will help me determine the ideal place for you to take her. Brett had me run the same report on Ms. Amanda Higgs.” The Oracle’s eyes narrowed. Keiko looked at him for a moment then continued. “I can change a few parameters to correspond with your wife’s—”

A loud buzz sounded from a speaker on the Oracle’s desk. “Sir?”

The Oracle leaned forward. “Yes, Kristine.”

“I have Lieutenant General Charles McFadden on the line, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

McFadden.
What could the Director of the DIA want? Delphi rarely worked with that arm of intelligence. In fact, he only remembered speaking to McFadden on two occasions, both social events. This couldn’t be good news.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” the Oracle said. He mashed a lighted button on his phone. “This is Ross.”

A deep voice boomed out of the speaker. “Ross, this is Director McFadden.”

“Good morning.” Ross leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

“Thank you. It was a good morning… until about ten minutes ago.”

The Oracle frowned.

McFadden continued. “I’m afraid we’ve uncovered something requiring our immediate attention. What can you tell me about Operation Green Beacon?”

Why was he asking about Green Beacon? Ross wasn’t concerned that McFadden was aware of their operation in Brazil—after all, the director was one of a few select individuals who knew about the existence of Delphi. But he
was
concerned about why he wanted to know.

The Oracle leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. “We’re performing covert due diligence. I can give you more detail if you need it, but in essence, we are following up on a signal that was broadcast from the Amazon basin.”

“A signal?” McFadden sounded concerned. “Does this involve the Brazilian military?”

“No. We’re attempting to locate the source of a strange audio transmission that was initiated in the Amazon basin,” the Oracle said. “The CliffsNotes version is that we feel there could be advanced technology involved.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s even a little more bizarre than that. But I’m not sure how much information you need.”

“Let me tell you what we’ve discovered, and then we can decide if we need to discuss the operation further.” McFadden cleared his throat. “Ross, I don’t know any other way to put this, but it appears your operation has a mole.”

The blood rushed out of the Oracle’s face. “A mole? There must be some mistake.” His mind shuffled through the names and faces of those involved, lingering on a couple who jumped out as suspects.

“I wish there were.”

“Who is it?”

McFadden gave him the name of the mole and who that person had been in contact with.

The Oracle’s heart pounded. It seemed unthinkable that he could be responsible for this kind of betrayal. The entire mission was now at risk. In fact, unless they could figure something out, it was likely they’d have to abort.

“Who’s your man in charge?” McFadden asked.

“Zane Watson.” The Oracle put his glasses on the desk and rubbed his temples.

“I’m assuming you have a way of contacting him. I think the three of us should probably discuss how to proceed from here.”

The Oracle opened a drawer and retrieved a satellite phone. “I’ll conference him in right now, General.”

ZANE AWAKENED SLOWLY. The acetaminophen was wearing off, and his head was throbbing again. He could tell that he was lying in a hammock, and he could hear the crackle of a fire close by. He tried to force himself back to sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let him.