he'd ever made in his life, and what amazed him was that it was legal, all of it handled by credit card through an Internet billing company; they took their cut and the rest was wired to his bank account.
If he'd known how easy it was to make money honestly, he could've saved himself a shitload of grief.
He crunched up a few more peanuts and pushed away the dish, mindful of his waistline, as the bartender arrived with a fresh cup. "Sorry it took so long, and my apologies again."
"No problem." He sipped the coffee-very fresh. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, sir."
Weed Maddox turned his thoughts to the problem at hand. The notebook wasn't in the house. That meant that Broadbent either had it on him or had hidden it off-site, maybe in a safe-deposit box. Wherever it was, Maddox knew he wasn't going to get it now by theft. He felt a swelling of irritation. Broadbent was up to his ass in it in one way or another. Maybe as a rival-maybe even as Weathers's partner.
Maddox could almost hear Corvus's Brit voice ringing in his head-The note book. There was only one way: he had to force Broadbent to give it up. What he needed was leverage.
What he needed was her.
"First time in Santa Fe?" the bartender asked, breaking into his thoughts.
"Yeah."
"Business?"
"What else?" Maddox grinned.
"Are you here for the laproscopic surgery conference?"
Christ, he probably did look like a doctor. A
Connecticut
doctor on a medical junket, all expenses paid by some pharmaceutical giant. If only the bartender could see the tattoo that covered his back from nape to butt. He'd shit his
pants
"No," said Maddox pleasantly, "I'm in human resources."
20
THE E-MAIL TOM received the next morning went:
Tom,
I "deciphered" the journal. You are not going to believe this. I repeat: you are not going to believe this. Come up to the monastery a.s.a.p. and prepare to have your mind blown.
Wyman
Tom had left the house immediately. Now that his Chevy was approaching the last mile of washboard road to the monastery, his impatience had reached a feverish pitch.
Soon the bell tower of the monastery rose above the chamisa, and Tom pulled into the parking lot, a dust cloud rolling back over him as he got out. In a moment Brother Wyman came flying down from the church, his robes flapping behind him, like a giant bat on the wing.
"How long did it take you to crack the code?" Tom asked as they climbed the hill. "Twenty minutes?"
"Twenty hours. I never did crack the code."
"I don't get it."
"That was the whole problem. It wasn't & code."
"Not a code?"
"That's what threw me. All those numbers in neat rows and columns, I kept assuming it had to be a code. Every test I ran on the numbers indicated they were not random, that they were highly patterned-but to what end? It wasn't a prime number code; it wasn't any kind of substitution and transposition code or any other cipher I could think of. I was stumped-until it occurred to me that it wasn't a code at all."
"Then what is it?"
"Data."
"Data?"
"I was a complete idiot. I should've seen it right off." Wyman broke off as they neared the refectory, putting a finger to his lips. They walked inside, down a hall, and into a small, cool whitewashed room. An Apple laptop sat on a crude wooden table underneath a disturbingly realistic crucifix. Ford peered around guiltily and carefully shut the door.
"We're not really supposed to be talking in here," he whispered. "I feel like the bad boy at school, smoking in the John."
"So what kind of data was it?"
"You'll see."
"Did it reveal the man's identity?"
"Not exactly, but it will lead you to him. I know that much."
They pulled chairs up on either side of the computer. Brother Wyman raised the screen, turned it on, and they waited while it booted up. As soon as it was running, Ford began typing rapidly. "I'm connecting to the Internet via a broadband satellite connection. Your man was using a remote sensing instrument and copying
If he'd known how easy it was to make money honestly, he could've saved himself a shitload of grief.
He crunched up a few more peanuts and pushed away the dish, mindful of his waistline, as the bartender arrived with a fresh cup. "Sorry it took so long, and my apologies again."
"No problem." He sipped the coffee-very fresh. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, sir."
Weed Maddox turned his thoughts to the problem at hand. The notebook wasn't in the house. That meant that Broadbent either had it on him or had hidden it off-site, maybe in a safe-deposit box. Wherever it was, Maddox knew he wasn't going to get it now by theft. He felt a swelling of irritation. Broadbent was up to his ass in it in one way or another. Maybe as a rival-maybe even as Weathers's partner.
Maddox could almost hear Corvus's Brit voice ringing in his head-The note book. There was only one way: he had to force Broadbent to give it up. What he needed was leverage.
What he needed was her.
"First time in Santa Fe?" the bartender asked, breaking into his thoughts.
"Yeah."
"Business?"
"What else?" Maddox grinned.
"Are you here for the laproscopic surgery conference?"
Christ, he probably did look like a doctor. A
Connecticut
doctor on a medical junket, all expenses paid by some pharmaceutical giant. If only the bartender could see the tattoo that covered his back from nape to butt. He'd shit his
pants
"No," said Maddox pleasantly, "I'm in human resources."
20
THE E-MAIL TOM received the next morning went:
Tom,
I "deciphered" the journal. You are not going to believe this. I repeat: you are not going to believe this. Come up to the monastery a.s.a.p. and prepare to have your mind blown.
Wyman
Tom had left the house immediately. Now that his Chevy was approaching the last mile of washboard road to the monastery, his impatience had reached a feverish pitch.
Soon the bell tower of the monastery rose above the chamisa, and Tom pulled into the parking lot, a dust cloud rolling back over him as he got out. In a moment Brother Wyman came flying down from the church, his robes flapping behind him, like a giant bat on the wing.
"How long did it take you to crack the code?" Tom asked as they climbed the hill. "Twenty minutes?"
"Twenty hours. I never did crack the code."
"I don't get it."
"That was the whole problem. It wasn't & code."
"Not a code?"
"That's what threw me. All those numbers in neat rows and columns, I kept assuming it had to be a code. Every test I ran on the numbers indicated they were not random, that they were highly patterned-but to what end? It wasn't a prime number code; it wasn't any kind of substitution and transposition code or any other cipher I could think of. I was stumped-until it occurred to me that it wasn't a code at all."
"Then what is it?"
"Data."
"Data?"
"I was a complete idiot. I should've seen it right off." Wyman broke off as they neared the refectory, putting a finger to his lips. They walked inside, down a hall, and into a small, cool whitewashed room. An Apple laptop sat on a crude wooden table underneath a disturbingly realistic crucifix. Ford peered around guiltily and carefully shut the door.
"We're not really supposed to be talking in here," he whispered. "I feel like the bad boy at school, smoking in the John."
"So what kind of data was it?"
"You'll see."
"Did it reveal the man's identity?"
"Not exactly, but it will lead you to him. I know that much."
They pulled chairs up on either side of the computer. Brother Wyman raised the screen, turned it on, and they waited while it booted up. As soon as it was running, Ford began typing rapidly. "I'm connecting to the Internet via a broadband satellite connection. Your man was using a remote sensing instrument and copying
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