The Lucy Ghosts Read online

  Tucker laughed. 'Have a good day now.'

  She sat still for a moment before replacing the receiver.

  Two dead. While she sat here in front of this unblinking screen, people were dying out there. And they expected her to find the answer, to just snatch a solution out of thin air

  She thought of West Wing, thought of him being sliced and splattered by the spinning propeller, just stamped out as if he'd never existed, not even a whole being to bury.

  She shook her head, turned her mind away from the awfulness of it and started to enter what little information she had.

  What she couldn't key in, because she didn't know, were those final moments of death. West Wing, turning away from the twin turboprop, nineteen seater Swearingam Metro aeroliner, saw two men approaching him. They both carried long poles and circled him. It was a quiet part of the airport, away from the main terminal and more busy areas. The plane had started to taxi, to swing round towards the runway, when the men had prodded him with their weapons, pushed him backwards towards the spinning blades. He'd cried out, but no-one heard above the roar of the turbo engines. Then, before he could duck away to escape the propeller, the first blade had sliced into his skull, sliced the back of his head off in a ball of matted bloody hair, bone and brain. The second blade ripped his body in half, tore the torso from his arms and legs and left a fleshy mess on the tarmac for the undercarriage wheels to taxi over as the plane headed for the runway.

  The two men who had caused his death, returned to the distant terminal. They left the poles in a engineering shed where they had found them. Both men had short blond hair and walked in step, as soldiers would.

  In California, Billie keyed West Wing into her computer.

  It was only a small clue, but it gave her some small hope. Maybe, when they had modemed over more information on him, she would crack the problem. And then she'd be safe. Maybe then they'd keep her on.

  She wondered what instinct had prompted her to ask if West Wing had a war record.

  She laughed at herself. Instinct. Some instinct. It hadn't done her much good in her life.

  She went back to her terminal.

  Facts. That's where the answers lay.

  Suck instinct. That was for the birds.

  Ch. 11

  CIA HQ,

  Langley.

  Virginia

  USA.

  Phil Tucker sat on the edge of a table and watched the two computer programmers at work.

  They were both young, in their early twenties, and more than capable of solving most problems. They had spent over a week trying to find the virus that infected the Langley computer, but with no apparent success. The real problem was that every time they switched the system on, it simply continued to corrupt the information, continuing from where it left off when the computer was powered down.

  All that the programmers had managed to identify was that the virus infected only part of the whole system. Most of the Langley database was untouched, the CIA's day to day operations continuing unabated.

  The sections corrupted by the virus were mainly of an archival type. Data on the activities of the Office of Strategic Services were the most affected, including the files on OSS counter-intelligence in Europe at the end of the war and up to 1947, when it ceased to exist and became the CIA. But the virus continued, still destroying those files which were a continuation of similar activity until 1958. It was these files that contained information on the early days of the Cold War, of the networks installed throughout Europe by the Americans as the tension between East and West grew, of the many military and scientific secrets that were seized by the OSS from Nazi Germany at the end of the War. Although most of the information was now defunct, there was still the occasional need for it, as in the case of Reindeer. The paper documents had long since been shredded as part of Langley's drive to a paperless situation. All back-ups were also found to be corrupted with the virus.

  He thought of the telephone call during the early hours of the morning. Only this time it wasn't 'Reindeer', but 'West Wing'. He'd known better than to dig into the computer, knew that the virus would eat away the information. So he'd kept the woman talking as he tried to find out who West Wing was. Karl Breitling, sixty years old and a baggage handler with the airport authority. She knew little else and yes, he would make sure she received her pension. He had passed the information to the DDA's office, but knew they were as much in the dark as he was without the computer. They'd told him to pass the information on to California.

  'Okay, we're ready to give her another run,' said one of the programmers, breaking into his thoughts.

  Tucker nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

  The first programmer loaded an old floppy disk into the system, watched the icon come up on the screen to confirm it was loaded. Once satisfied, he switched to the Langley menu and punched in his authorisation code. When the menu was opened, he typed in the codes for the OSS files.

  While he waited for the system to retrieve the information, he looked at his companion.

  'If the antidote works, then it'll enter the system within ten seconds of the menu opening and stop the information from breaking up,' his companion said, speaking to Tucker, who had now swung himself off the table edge and stood behind them.

  The three of them watched the screen.

  'You know the difference between sex and computers?' asked the second programmer of Tucker as they waited.

  'No.'

  'In computers, the software goes into the hardware,' the programmer paused and waited for Tucker's reaction.

  'Go on. I'm slow today.'

  'In sex, the hardware goes into the soft....' the first programmer butted in.

  'Why you always spoiling my gags?' snapped his companion.

  Tucker laughed as the screen came alive.

  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 t
he 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.'

  'Okay with me.' Tucker smiled. Gossip was one thing you could get out of people at Langley. It was part of the 'I'm more important than you' process. There were no secrets in the Company.

  ''Heinrich Trimmler. One of our top rocket boys. At the Mirimar Air Base, out at La Jolla. All I know about the base is that it's top, top priority.'

  'I presume he's American?'

  'He is now. Came over after the war. Anyway, he was sitting on this beach in the South of France with some friends and this African, from Senegal, comes up and opens fire on the group. Missed Trimmler but killed a friend of his.'

  'What did the African say afterwards?'

  'Not a lot. A cop shot him dead.'

  'What makes you so sure he was after Trimmler?'

  'We ain't. Except that someone's after our assets and the African aimed his shooter at him and pulled the trigger. Only reason he's still around is because the gun jammed. Trimmler's pretty high powered. Been on the Canaveral and Houston teams, was one of Von Braun's main people.We sent a G4 to pick him up at Nice Airport as soon as we heard what happened.' When they got there, Trimmler and his wife were waiting at the airport, but there was no sign of their daughter. She's nineteen years old and, so they say, beautiful with it. So one of our people went back to the hotel to find her. He did that all right. In bed with two guys, both old enough to be her grandfathers. It was in her parents' bedroom, in the bed they'd just vacated. And the best of it was that she was being paid. Our guys got her dressed and dragged her out. And the clients were screaming after them that they wanted their money back.' Carter snorted as he laughed. 'I tell ya, that didn't go in any report. On the way back, she just sat there, demure as a kitten. And when she arrived in San Diego, she gave all the guys her business card. With her name and telephone number printed on. Said to call any time they wanted.'

  Tucker watched Carter chuckling to himself, could imagine him at a bar with a beer in his hand, a constant source of smutty jokes. He'd dine on that one for a long time. He wondered if Carter had a daughter, wondered how she'd turn out.

  The door opened and the two Deputy Directors walked in.

  Tucker and Carter stood up.

  'It's okay. Sit down.'

  The two men sat again as the newcomers joined them at the table.

  'How big are these computer files we're talking about?' the DDI asked Tuck
er, getting straight to the point..

  'Very. Just to give you an idea, in the late 1950's Russia's State Security Committee, which presided over the whole of their Secret Service, employed nearly a million people inside and out of the Soviet Union. Now, we didn't have all those people on our data base, but we were receiving information daily from all over the world on their personnel. That came under the Office of Soviet Analysis, one of your departments, sir. Then there was the rest of Europe, South America, Asia and Africa. On top of that, just dealing with the Russian personnel, we also had covert investigations running on students and other possible activists here in the United States. And let's not forget McCarthy and everything he drummed up. I've got one section that deals with Hollywood and every actor, writer, director, producer, cameraman. Add to that the OSS records, the Nazi Spy rings, the Korean War...I could go on forever. And all that information probably covers no more than twenty five percent of what we're talking about.'

  'Always did have too much fucking paperwork in this organisation,' said the DDI, looking accusingly at the DDA.

  'And all this is at risk?' asked the DDA, ignoring his colleague's criticism.

  'Could be, sir.'

  'Explain.'

  'We've identified that not all the files are contaminated. Asia seems untouched, as does Australia. Northern Africa too, but South Africa is almost wiped out.'

  'South America?'

  'Contaminated.'

  The two DDs looked at each other, but Tucker went on, ending their sudden speculation.

  'Funnily enough, the Cuban files are untouched.'

  'Or been changed for when Castro dies,' said the DDI.

  'No, sir. We would've identified that. Most of the South American cases are in the southern half of the continent, from Brazil down. But the heaviest contamination is in the European field. The whole of that database, from 1943 onwards, anything to do with counter-intelligence or OSS activities, is under threat.'

  'Are you any closer to tracing this virus?'

  'No sir.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because we don't know its code. It'll have its own logic, be designed to be activated at a certain time, or when certain information is called up. And it'll be trained to attack specific data, corrupt select fields. We don't know what that logic is. And it's so advanced that it just reactivates every time we power up the computer to go into those files. It won't allow copies to be made, no data to be transferred. We've run over sixty tests, introduced as many antidotes, and we're no nearer solving it than when we started.'