Scorpio Rising, Page 2

  He hitched his belt higher on his hips and strode toward the entrance of the low-slung compound that looked like a giant wedge of concrete and smoked glass driven into the brow of the mountain. He started to sweat just getting from the car to the building and he knew it wasn’t just the afternoon heat. He was packing about sixty pounds extra, and it was costing him his marriage.

  As he approached the entrance he passed his control card in front of a waist-high steel post and the smoked-glass doors slid open. In the foyer behind a counter sat an officer he’d never seen before. The security staff in these installations constantly rotated, and you could go weeks without seeing a familiar face. All part of making it impossible for anyone to take it for granted that just because they’d let you in yesterday, they were still authorized to do so today.

  The officer looked at Cassidy’s face, then swiped the card through a reader and stared at a monitor. He slid the card back across the counter. “Have a nice day, Dr. Cassidy.”

  Cassidy pocketed his card and walked on. Another smoked-glass door slid open and he entered a hallway that curved to the left. He headed straight for the men’s washroom where the urinals, toilets and sinks were all brushed steel, and small electronic eyes monitored everything that came and went. He took a leak, tucked his shirt in and tightened his belt a notch. He washed his hands and splashed water on his flushed face.

  He sometimes imagined that these electronic eyes might be taking pictures of his privates, and that the drains from the toilets and urinals were routed to hidden labs where his urine and feces could be tested for substance abuse. But that was all just too Orwellian to contemplate. With the responsibilities on his shoulders, he had trouble enough sleeping as it was. He ran a comb through his wet hair, smiled for the hidden cameras behind the mirror and went off to his meeting.

  ~~~

  It was a get-together that Dr. Cassidy genuinely relished, sort of an intellectual boys’ club. There were just the four of them today and, despite the pressures of their own recognition-desperate egos and the very real demands of national security, it was all very chummy. They sat at the conference table, everyone with colas or spring water from one of their sanctioned suppliers. They had a fridge full of Eagle Spirit, Big Bear Mountain and Crystal Rock mineral waters that some patriotic quartermaster had imposed upon them. Ever since Gulf War II, Evian and Perrier were verboten. Hell, the cafeteria didn’t even serve French fries anymore, and if you wanted potatoes, it was Idaho baked or mashed. But they weren’t here for the food and beverages, they were here to outsmart a bunch of Koran-thumping tribesmen half a world away.

  His colleagues were all in their thirties, each with advanced degrees in mathematics, physics, computer systems or some combination thereof. Jim Morris was a Stanford man with shoulder length hair who came to work in shorts and sandals half the time, sometimes leather pants and snakeskin boots in colder weather, proving you could take the weirdoes out of California but not vice versa. Bob Kruger from MIT had one of the biggest foreheads you’d ever seen, you’d think it concealed a giant sonar, and his fingers constantly fingered air guitar riffs. Brian Denman was from Georgia Tech, a quiet guy with a thousand-yard stare who meditated in his spare time and performed intellectual heavy lifting on the job.

  Idiosyncrasies aside, they were a brilliant team and among them had enough doctorates to paper the smallest room in anyone’s house. Cassidy was grateful to have them on his most important project, which involved counter-terrorism in cyberspace. His wasn’t the only little skunk-works fighting this war, just another squad of computerized grunts taking on jihad one server at a time, eliminating terrorists so the forces of freedom could prevail. But they were producing results acknowledged by his grateful superiors, and were looking at serious bonuses come performance review time, maybe even a letter of thanks from someone high in the Directorate.

  So, here they were, late Tuesday afternoon, everyone comfy in their thousand-dollar-plus ergonomic chairs, fluid levels adjusted, notebooks and smart phones at the ready, studying the big flat-screen monitor which displayed the front page of a website with Arabic characters.

  Kruger, whose domed forehead possibly concealed a state-of-the-art bullshit detector, was the team’s self-appointed cynic. “Do we know for sure it’s al-Qaeda?”

  “Who else would post the formula for sarin gas?” Morris said. “Along with maps of every American embassy in the world, and range coordinates for everything from RPGs to heavy mortar?”

  “Well, at last count we have three dozen independent factions operating out of Pakistan, Iran, Yemen… for starters. And just because it’s in Arabic doesn’t mean they’re Islamists. The North Koreans have scholars in foreign languages too, and they’re a mischievous bunch of bastards.”

  “But the site’s down now?” Cassidy said.

  “Within four hours of going online,” Denman said. Driven by a super-computer, they had programs that scanned cyberspace 24/7 looking for telltale character strings correlated with terrorist cell activities. There were a thousand-plus websites associated with global jihad, offering everything from recruitment exhortations to training manuals to bomb-making recipes. Staying current with them was a monstrous task. But once their program found a target, it unleashed the cyberspace equivalent of a heat-seeking missile, overwhelming the target with virus-laden worms that burrowed into the host and hollowed it out from the inside.

  “Their server’s toast for now,” Morris said, “but that information was out there for almost four hours.”

  “We’ve got to shorten our search-and-destroy cycle,” Cassidy said. Aside from setting the agenda by stating the obvious, he now had to roll up his intellectual shirtsleeves and guide them through an intensive brainstorming session lasting almost eight hours.

  Chapter 3

  San Francisco

  In the Grand Ballroom of the Hyatt Regency Hotel, an audience of highly educated, highly paid and mostly bored banking executives in expensive suits listened to the luckless speaker of the last presentation of the day. Many of the executives, typically AVPs and below from dozens of national and regional banks, were working their smart phones to answer emails, monitor stock quotes or search the web for recommended restaurants or off-beat night life, of which San Francisco had much to offer. Onstage, the speaker stroked his laptop to advance a slide in his colorful but listless PowerPoint presentation being projected onto the big screen for all to ignore. Above the projection screen a big banner read ‘America – Banking on the Future’. All around the stage were logos of banks.

  “...And our choice for the future is clear,” the speaker was saying. “Nickel-and-dime our clients on services or use better technology in more innovative ways...”

  Jeb Stockwell, a 39-year-old vice-president whose handsome features lacked any distinguishing characteristic that could make him GQ material, stared into space, his mind far removed from banking. For the third time in fifteen minutes, he looked at his watch, then at his hands. His nails were manicured and his hands were as smooth and clean as a doctor’s. But they were nervous hands and they kept twisting and turning this way and that, locking fingers and pulling apart, reuniting again to rub each other anxiously like forbidden lovers who’ve been warned to keep their distance but just couldn’t stay away from each other.

  He looked around him. Most of these third-tier bankers were men but there were a few women among them, maybe ten percent of the attendees. He felt a vague pity for everyone here. Banking was one of the most regimented industries, upon whose moneyed altar all serious aspirants sacrificed their individuality for the higher good. Secretly he prayed he’d soon escape these cloisters of commerce and find his true calling in less restrictive circumstances, like managing his investment portfolio from the terrace of some Caribbean hideaway.

  The speaker wound up his presentation and opened the floor to questions, of which there were none. At the end of the day, the only question in anyone’s mind was, Where do we go for dinner? The speaker acknowledged
defeat and, like a teacher on the last day of class, released his restless audience by powering off his laptop. The audience applauded politely before surging toward the exit.

  Stockwell, along with a couple of other AVPs he knew from New York, caught an elevator back up to their rooms. Scott Nelson of JP Morgan, a baby-faced guy with the girth of a wrestler, peeled off his jacket and loosened his tie. Eric Stanley of Citibank, who was into personal mergers as much as corporate ones, checked messages on his phone.

  “What do you say, guys?” Nelson said. “A drink in the bar before dinner?”

  “Let’s go out,” Stanley said. “There’re no eligible women here.”

  “I’ve seen a few prospects.”

  “Bankers,” Stanley made a face. “Like sleeping with your cousins. Bad for business. Some day you could find yourself trying to do a deal with one. But if you’ve kissed her off in a one-night stand, there goes your deal and bonus and God knows what else.”

  “There’s a sports bar just up the block. Even if there’re no babes, we can watch a game or something before dinner.”

  “You guys are on your own,” Stockwell said. “I need to take a nap. This time zone’s put me way off stride.”

  “You want to rendezvous for dinner?” Nelson suggested.

  “Nah, you guys go on alone. I’m ordering room service and working on tomorrow’s presentation.” The elevator door opened on the 18th floor and Stockwell got out. The door closed behind him.

  “What a putz,” Stanley said.

  “Married old money,” Nelson shrugged. “It’s tamed his wild animal spirit.”

  “Yeah, right,” Stanley smirked. “Like he ever had one.”

  ~~~

  Half an hour later, Jeb Stockwell emerged from the hotel’s underground garage, now wearing running shoes, cap and sunglasses. Scanning the sidewalk for familiar faces, ready to cross the street if he saw one, he walked over to Market Street just as a streetcar clattered down the hill. He followed it all the way down to the Embarcadero, the palm-treed avenue that accessed the piers between Fisherman’s Wharf and the East Bay Bridge. He entered the Ferry Building, found the ticket booth and paid cash for a two-way fare to Larkspur.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was seated in the ferry’s forward lounge along with hundreds of other commuters heading home to the North Bay after a day in the city. Off in the distance he saw the Golden Gate Bridge, its orange paint barely discernible in the late-day haze. The guy in the seat across the aisle kept looking his way, maybe a tourist checking out the distant bridge, maybe gay and checking him out.

  Stockwell went out onto the deck. They were passing Alcatraz, the decommissioned prison that was now a tourist attraction. He stood at the rail and stared at the island as the ferry shuddered its way across the bay. He imagined the regrets of so many luckless souls who’d stood at their barred windows with a reverse view, watching a ferry go by, perhaps thinking, there but for a twisted chromosome go I. Again he said a silent prayer that everything would go as planned and he’d never see the inside of a cell.

  He remained on deck for the rest of the trip. He felt a little queasy but it wasn’t the ride. He enjoyed boats and had done quite a bit of sailing, both during his graduate studies at Berkeley and more recently these last few years out of Southampton. Rather, it was the thought of what he had to do in the next hour that knotted his stomach.

  As he looked ahead, he realized that the complex of buildings on the headland off the starboard bow was San Quentin. Two prison views in one trip, he hoped this wasn’t an omen. He tightened his hold on the railing. Get a grip, man. Don’t let your imagination get carried away.

  The ferry maneuvered up to the Larkspur Terminal dock. He remained at the railing, watching passengers gather on the deck as the dock crew lowered the boarding ramp and opened the gate to let passengers disembark. As the last of them straggled off, he brought up the rear. Although his feet moved at a shuffle, his heart was galloping.

  He passed through the terminal. Most passengers had dispersed into the parking lot, heading for their cars, while others queued up for buses. He killed time, examining a print media dispenser, flipping through real estate brochures and community newspapers, like a tourist trying to assess the lay of the land.

  He scanned the parking lot. The last passengers had found their vehicles and headed home. He walked out along the nearest row of cars, tugging a pair of leather gloves from his jacket. It wasn’t the season for gloves but they were a pale tan, almost flesh-colored, and at a quick glance would probably pass for bare hands.

  It only took a minute to find something suitable – a 1995 blue Jeep Cherokee. He sidled up to the driver’s side door, putting the Cherokee between him and the terminal. He whacked the door with his hand, its lack of response confirming the older vehicle had no alarm. The door was locked but he’d come prepared. He drew a 12-inch aluminum ruler from his jacket sleeve. He’d bought it yesterday from a hardware store, along with a pair of small metal shears with which he’d cut a deep notch in the ruler an inch from the end. He jammed the shim under the rubber window seal, felt for the door mechanism and pulled. The door popped open and he got in.

  He bent down to look under the steering column’s ignition lock and, using yet another modified hardware tool, started the Jeep. Amazing the things he’d learned on a summer job with the AAA road service crew several years ago. He put the Cherokee into gear and drove away.

  Chapter 4

  Toronto, Canada

  Axel Crowe sat listening to Margo Riordon, a Police forensics instructor who’d invited him to join her for a luncheon talk at the University of Toronto. Margo was telling the audience in her lively and articulate manner about fingerprint technology.

  “Thanks to TV programs like CSI, you know that high speed computers can access huge databases to perform print matching in mere minutes. But did you know that police services world-wide now routinely print much more of criminals’ hands than just the fingerprints? Other parts of the hand are also being captured. Ultimately these too will be added to databases for matching.”

  Margo turned on a projector and used a laser pointer to indicate a portion of a fingerprint form – four fingers grouped side by side, their relative heights making obvious which were the index, middle, ring and little fingers.

  “For example, Toronto Police Services use Motorola’s PrinTrak console to scan fingerprints, but also the panel of four fingers grouped together, what the FPTs – fingerprint technicians – call a flat. One for the right hand, one for the left.”

  She pointed to another section of the fingerprint form, a vertical swatch of skin. “They also scan the subject’s edge-of-palm, what the FPTs call the writer’s palm.”

  Margo indicated another band of the palm just below the fingers. “Finally, they capture the skin ridge patterns at the base of the fingers. FPTs call these the inter-digitals.”

  As he listened, Crowe used his iPhone to review tomorrow’s planetary lineup for the first race of the day at Woodbine racetrack. He had a system for playing the horses, using astrology and numerology. A couple of years ago he’d enjoyed a winning streak that included a trifecta win paying 800 to one on a $20 bet, which had helped him make the down payment on a house in The Beaches. In recent months, however, he’d been on a losing streak. Although he couldn’t quite bring himself to quit what he considered a research effort, he’d scaled his bets back to staunch the bleeding from his bank account.

  Margo was saying, “Axel Crowe, a graduate of this criminology program, has since become something of an expert in a different field. Axel, care to take it from here?”

  Crowe mounted the podium and looked out at the audience. There were about thirty people, equal numbers of men and women. To judge by their apparent ages, most were students but some of the older attendees were almost certainly faculty.

  “I graduated fifteen years ago,” Crowe began, “but didn’t follow through on my original plan to pursue a career in law enforcement. Shortly after
university I met my guru and, next thing I knew, I’d spent fourteen years studying astrology, palmistry and other related subjects like ayurveda, the Vedic science of health.”

  “That’s quite a leap,” someone in the audience said, “from criminology to astrology.”

  “Yes,” Crowe agreed, “although some would say they’re both black arts.”

  That got a laugh from the audience.

  “For several years I’ve researched all things related to the hands – from the esotericism of palmistry to the forensic science of fingerprinting – which is how I met Margo. A few years ago, she gave me a tour of her office and explained crime scene procedures to me, at least insofar as they relate to fingerprint technology. Since then we’ve become colleagues of a sort, albeit on different sides of the fence.”

  “He keeps trying to coax me over to the dark side,” Margo said, “but so far I’ve been strong.”

  “Close-minded, she means,” Crowe said.

  Another laugh from the audience.

  Crowe held up his hand. “I’d like to talk about the future. As Margo said, police forces now have more data than ever to work with, so if a fingerprint isn’t available from the crime scene but a writer’s palm is, they can still match a suspect to a crime. Aside from providing identification, these additional points of reference also supply fresh data for profiling – using fingerprints and handprints to extrapolate behavioral characteristics of the perpetrator.”

  A hand went up in the audience. Crowe nodded to the young man. “But fingerprints aren’t currently used in profiling,” the student said. “Or did I miss that episode of CSI?”

  “You’re absolutely right, but I predict that within a decade fingerprint technicians will routinely print the entire palm for purposes of both identification and analysis, the latter of which will provide input to the process of offender profiling.”

  “And you think FPTs will do the profiling as well?”

  “Depends on their interest and talent. Patrol officers get promoted to detectives. With training, FPTs could become handprint profilers. Even if the job seems routine, it involves pattern recognition which is interpretive.”