The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,172

to catch up. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ said Harper, grim-faced, ‘there’s a federal secure data storage facility there. It’s the only place Gray can get proof about what happened in Pakistan.’

Shock crossed Baxter’s craggy face. ‘You told me all the files had been destroyed!’

‘They have. But there’s something that’s impossible to delete – the activity logs.’ Seeing Baxter’s blank look, he explained: ‘Every time a file is created, accessed, edited or deleted on the USIC network, the system notes it in a log – along with the identity of the person who did it, and the terminal they used. It’s a security measure: if the same login is used in two different locations at the same time, say, the computer raises an alarm.’

‘So how does that prove anything?’

‘Because,’ growled Harper, ‘it shows that I personally accessed and altered the file that was given to Gray to pass on to al-Qaeda – Easton’s itinerary.’

They exited the house. Baxter’s black Suburban was parked nearby, blue lights flashing. Behind it was the empty Cadillac. ‘But the actual file was deleted, wasn’t it?’ said Baxter.

‘It doesn’t matter. The logs establish a chain of contact between me and Gray immediately prior to his mission in Islamabad. If Gray gets hold of them and passes them on to the wrong person, we’re finished. Even without the files, the logs provide enough evidence to start an investigation. And there are plenty of hard-nosed little bastards who’ve been waiting for the chance to attack me.’

‘People like Sternberg?’

‘He’s top of the list, yes.’ Harper spotted someone in the SUV. ‘Who’s your driver?’

‘Reed.’

‘Is he trustworthy?’

‘You can trust all my men, sir.’

‘Good. You drive my car, and tell him to clear the way for us. Oh, and I need a phone.’ Baxter went to the Suburban and issued instructions, returning with Reed’s cell phone and giving it to Harper. The two men got into the Cadillac, the DNI taking the back seat. The vehicles set off. ‘Are your teams still in the field?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get them there too. I want Gray and Childs dead before the cops or anyone else get involved.’

‘On it.’ Baxter took out his phone, and was about to dial a number when it rang. He answered it. ‘Baxter. Yes? Okay, hold on. The Admiral’s here with me.’ He put it on speaker. ‘Sir, you should hear this.’

‘We got a hit on Dr Childs’ credit card,’ said the man at the other end of the line. ‘It was used at a hardware superstore in Brentwood.’

‘How long ago?’ Harper demanded. Brentwood was in eastern DC, some five miles north-west of Suitland. If Gray was going there, he had a considerable head start.

‘About fifteen minutes.’

‘Why wasn’t I told immediately?’ asked Baxter.

‘You ordered us to get a list of anything Dr Childs or Agent Gray bought. The manager was uncooperative and wouldn’t give it to us without a warrant. We had to wait for a FISC judge to issue one.’

‘Well?’ said Harper impatiently. ‘What did they buy?’

‘I’ve got the list here, sir. It’s, uh . . . odd.’

‘Just read it out!’

‘Yes, sir. The card was used to buy a compressed air cylinder, a pressure relief valve, an inner tube, a six-foot length of PVC pipe, a hundred feet of rope, a light fitting, five pounds of lead shot, some air hose, a bicycle pump, a roll of duct tape and, ah . . . two footballs.’

Harper and Baxter exchanged bewildered looks in the mirror. ‘Footballs?’ the latter asked.

‘Yes, sir. American footballs, not soccer.’

‘Okay,’ said Harper in acknowledgement. ‘If there’s any further activity on their cards, inform us immediately.’

‘Footballs?’ echoed Baxter as he closed the line. ‘What the hell do they want with two footballs?’

46

Information Retrieval

Suitland, Maryland

Adam surveyed the large, windowless building from the rooftop of its darkened neighbour. The blocky structure’s sole relief from anonymity was an unassuming plaque reading WALTER J. GORMAN FEDERAL DATA REPOSITORY; beyond that, the only signage consisted of warnings against trespass. The presence of a US government facility here would draw no comment – the town of Suitland, a short distance outside the south-eastern boundary of the District of Columbia, was home to several minor agencies including the Census Bureau, and not far from the sprawling Andrews Air Force Base.

Even by bureaucratic standards, he knew, the Gorman Building was dull. It was in essence a glorified digital boxroom, one of several around the country built to store tape and disk backups of the gigabytes of information churned out by the American governmental machine every day. Most of the data it