Долгий '68. Ричард Вайнен

the box was cleared, she examined the isolated virus. It turned out to be a relatively benign form that simply replicated and sent e-mails to every address on an account. Not such a big deal if the infected computer was the personal machine of a teenage girl, but costly and damaging if it was the mainframe of a big corporation.

      The fact that she did have a teenage sister was one of the reasons Kim kept her e-mail accounts so rigidly separated.

      She sent her sister a warning message with instructions to remove the infected files from her own computer. In capital letters, she typed:

      DO NOT OPEN ATTACHMENTS. EVER. Love, Kim.

      Something jiggled in her brain, right at the edge.

      The answer.

      It was there, then gone, like a phantom.

      “Get some sleep, Valenti,” she said.

      Without dreams.

      Please.

      Chapter 2

      Tuesday, October 5

      T he following morning, Kim glared at the computer screen at work. They still had not made significant progress. Whatever clue was niggling at the edge of her brain had refused to come forth.

      Her partner, Scott Shepherd, dropped down beside her, a sheaf of papers in his hands. “Anything?” he asked. His eyes looked as red as her own probably did, and she offered her bottle of eyedrops.

      “That bad?”

      “Three-day-bender bad.”

      “Real men don’t use eyedrops. We just belt some bourbon and make it look authentic.” He rubbed his eyes. “The whole place needs new monitors, however. The refresh rate sucks.”

      Kim leaned back and pointed at the screen with the eraser end of a pencil she’d been chewing on. “What do you make of this signature file? It shows up on all of them, invisible in the e-mail itself, but running in the background.”

      He frowned at the screen, stroked his chin where he’d worn a goatee until joining the NSA. “I see it, but it’s not bringing anything up for me right this second.”

      Rolling her tired shoulders, she stood. “I feel like we’re so close. It’s driving me crazy.”

      “I know.”

      She pushed her chair under the desk, smacked his arm. “C’mon. Let’s get on the treadmills for a half hour, talk it out. Maybe there’s something we’re missing.” She stretched the muscles of her back, hard.

      “Sounds good.” He dropped the papers on her desk. “I pulled these up. Maybe there’s something else here.”

      “Last one on the treadmills is a rotten egg.”

      In the women’s locker room, Kim stripped out of her day clothes, a straight blue skirt, white blouse, stockings and low-heeled pumps. It was great to shed the uniform for stretchy shorts, a sports bra with a T-shirt over it, her comfortable Nike running shoes. She tugged her dark hair into a scrunchie and tucked her earrings into her pocket.

      Exercise would help clear the cobwebs. She tossed a towel over her shoulder and made her way into the fitness center.

      There were few people around. Although the NSA worked around the clock, this was generally a lull period. Scott had claimed a treadmill in the empty line, and she took the one beside him. She punched in numbers to get to a moderate jog and found her pace, then said, “So what’s going down? If you were a terrorist, what would you be targeting?”

      He shook his head. His jaw was grim. “The elections are a possibility.”

      The presidential elections would be held in a few weeks, and there had been a great deal of controversy over the incumbent, President James Whitlow. “Who’d be the best target?”

      “I’d kill the young, handsome one,” he said.

      Kim chuckled. “Personally dislike the guy, huh?”

      “It’s the tragedy factor—an old guy gets blown up, even if he’s a president, it’s not as big a deal as when a charming and handsome younger guy gets it.”

      “Good point.” Kim nodded. “Then again, terrorists have little love for the president, and it’s plain he’s not particularly effective at home or abroad.”

      “Especially in Berzhaan.”

      “Right. All the more reason terrorists might target him. Or maybe to get people to vote the way they want them to, as with Spain and maybe this new Munich thing. Get them to vote for Monihan.”

      Scott made a derisive noise. “I’m still having trouble taking Monihan seriously.”

      Kim wiped a lock of hair out of her eyes. “What’s the matter, Shepherd? He’s prettier than you?”

      “Nah. I’m serious here. He’s too young, and the only reason he’s so popular is because all these women are swooning over his pretty face.”

      “So, you’ve got to be old and ugly to be a good president?”

      He shot her a grin. “Adds dignity.”

      Kim rolled her eyes. “And Whitlow is so dignified.”

      “He’s a statesman of the old school, you gotta admit.”

      “Mmm. The who-cares-where-the-money-comes-from-as-long-as-I-get-elected school.” Whitlow was suspected of accepting money from a drug lord in Puerto Isla, and worse, sending in a SEAL force, which was then demolished, to cover it up. “Whitlow’s finished.”

      “Maybe. Unless they kill Monihan.”

      They ran in silence for a moment. Feet thumped rhythmically against the rubberized mats, and the motors whirred quietly. Kim felt her breath going deeper, expanding her lungs with oxygen—oxygen that then enlivened her brain cells.

      “They’re planning something big,” Scott said grimly. “I feel it in my gut.”

      “Me, too. If we don’t break this code, what are we going to find out in the worst way?”

      “Exactly.”

      “It’s a pretty sophisticated network,” Kim said. “So we’re looking at high-level planning.”

      “It’d be nice if terrorists were as stupid as criminals, but they wouldn’t get far in the modern world.”

      She grinned.

      They ran in companionable silence for a while. After a few minutes, Kim felt a click of endorphins, and the stress seemed to drain out of her body in a rush, as if someone had pulled a plug in her toe. “Ah,” she said, and blew out hard. “Better.”

      She glanced at Scott, who had sweat pouring down his rugged, well-cut face. “Admit it,” she said. “This feels pretty good.”

      “Yeah, Valenti, you’re as smart as you are good-looking.”

      “Sweet-talker.”

      He blotted his face. “So they say.”

      “The secretarial pool swoons when you walk through, Shepherd, along with half the cryptographers.” She gave him a sidelong grin. “Male and female.”

      “Why do you keep ribbing me about this, huh? I think you have a secret crush on me.”

      “That’s true. And you know me, I’m so mild mannered, I can’t come right out and say it.”

      He laughed. “Mild mannered. Yeah, right.” He punched the controls. “Climb some hills?”

      “You bet.” She punched in the incline numbers and grinned. It was the reason she liked working out with him—he was extremely competitive and pushed her to better levels. The hills were a point of pride.