"Well . . . it's quite intriguing. Mr. Daniels stored a lot of personal materials on his computer. Financial information. Checkbook. He did his taxes on the computer. Lots of personal correspondence, too." He added, with fraternal approval, "He was very computer-savvy . . ." then added, "but it's really weird."
Will was really weird. I kept that thought to myself, however, and asked, very sweetly, "What's weird?"
"The three encrypted folders."
"Folders?"
"Yeah . . . folders . . ." He stared at me through his thick spectacles before concluding, accurately, that his interrogator was a technological dimwit. "Like a dresser drawer in the hard drive, where you store common items . . . say, socks or underwear. Judging by the large amount of storage space, they must contain multiple files. But as I said, they're encoded. Indecipherable."
I asked, "Are we talking socks or underwear?" Actually, I'm not that much of a dimwit--I knew what folders were--but this was my way of getting him to tone down the cyber gibberish. He stared back, I'm sure wishing he, or I, were someplace else, but I'm sure he got the point.
Bian decided to be helpful and asked Will, "Can you describe the code?"
"Well . . . it looks like a commercial version. The FBI and CIA tried to get Congress to ban these commercial codes, but that hasn't worked. So now there are a number of these applications out there." He looked thoughtful and added, "Mostly, though, they're employed by businesses, not individuals."
Bian and I traded glances. The obvious question was: Why would a Defense Department official suspected of espionage have a private code installed on his personal computer? Then again, the obvious is sometimes the enemy of the truth.
Will, sort of verbally rubbing his hands together, informed us, "Wow . . . I'd love to take a whack at those codes myself."
Being an idiot, I asked, "So why don't you?"
"Frankly, that could take months, particularly if it's a VPN version. That ISP protocol is . . . well, with all those symmetric ciphers . . ." He shook his head. "Now, if it's SSL, that would be better luck."
Bian was nodding. I had not a clue what Will was whining about, nor was I about to ask another stupid question and risk another stream of what passes for technical jargon with these people and actually is alphabet diarrhea. Bian, ever the diplomat, suggested to Will, "Thank you. But wouldn't it make better sense to bring these encrypted files to the National Security Agency? They have a lot of expertise in codes and codebreaking."
This was not what Will hoped to hear, and he made a mopey little nod.
"How long will that take?" I asked Will.
"Maybe they already have experience with this code. If they have to break it from scratch, depending on the sophistication . . . a day . . . two days . . . three months. How badly do you want it?"
"Yesterday sounds about right. Tell Phyllis. She'll know whose ass to kiss or kick."
"Sure." He started to walk away, then slapped his forehead and spun around. "Oh . . . there're some letters John thinks you should see."
Carrying our coffee, Bian and I got up and followed Will back to the office, where John had his nose pressed against the computer screen.
I said to John, "Will mentioned letters."
"Uh . . . yeah. I thought you should see these," John replied. "Hold on." Without looking up, he manipulated the little cursor as though it was connected to his fingertip and quickly brought a Microsoft Word file up on the screen. He said, "There are a number of these. This one's a little nastier . . . yet generally representative of what we're seeing."
Bian and I leaned over his left shoulder. I read out loud:
You Bitch, Your bloodsucking fuck of a lawyer called me again today. At work!
Wow. I stopped reading out loud, and we both read to ourselves:
I'm tired of your bullshit threats about taking me back to court, and I'm REALLY tired of your efforts to destroy my career. I will not put up with it. You tell your hired asshole not to call me at the office any-more or he'll regret it. I'll take care of him myself.
Get it through your thick, bitchy brain: I have no more money to give. You have sucked me dry, you contemptible leech. So Lizzie has college bills-- Whoopty Doo. Tell her to get off her ass and get