Wall of Night by Grant Blackwood Page A

could not guard against was regular system maintenance. Using a “slightly recoded” CD version of the computer’s native antivirus software—in this case, Norton—James initiated a scan of the hard drive. Recognizing this as a routine event, the security program didn’t interfere. However, instead of scanning files, proclaiming them clean, then passing them back to the drive, James’s version of Norton copied each scanned file and transferred it to the CD before returning it to the hard drive. Since the security program cared only whether files were sent to an output device, it did not intervene.
    There was an electronic bong. James removed the CD and rebooted the system. “Now we see if we raised any alarms,” he said.
    The desktop reappeared on the screen. James used the mouse to check the drive’s directory. He smiled. “We’re okay. Not even a hiccup.”
    â€œGood job, James,” said Latham. “Let’s take a look at the CD.”
    â€‹Most of the data was useless —games, letters, recipes — but when they got to Baker’s money-management program, they struck pay dirt. “Holy cow,” said Randall. “Charlie, the balance in this checking account is almost three hundred grand. The account’s routing number looks odd, though.”
    â€œOffshore probably,” Latham said. “Let’s see who he was paying.”
    Randall clicked the mouse a few times to filter the account by payee. There were dozens of transactions, but one stood out. “WalPol Expeditions,” Randall murmured. “Here’s a check for eighty thousand … another for a hundred twenty.”
    â€œHow far back does it go?” asked Latham.
    â€œAlmost two years.”
    Bingo, Charlie thought. Whoever or whatever WalPol was, the late Larry Baker had paid them almost 250,000 dollars in the last eighteen months.
    Beijing
    Roger Brown had been expecting the order from Langley to arrange a face-to-face with Chang-Moh Bian. In the week it took them to make the decision, he’d made a decision of his own.
    Brown believed in leading from the front, and he wasn’t about to ask one of his people to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. Not to say he wasn’t apprehensive. Playing controller to an agent who is in turn playing intermediary for an already famous defector was a daunting task at best.
    Bian’s “ballpoint message” had designated a marker drop that Brown could use to establish contact, which he did the following Sunday by strolling around the Forbidden City’s 250 acres while performing a string of identifiers: his coat held a certain way, a newspaper folded and left on a bench, tying his shoe near a fountain. He passed several uniformed and plainclothes PSB and PAP officers, but none paid him any attention.
    After two hours of this pageantry, Brown returned to the bench beside the Golden Water Stream and sat down. Two minutes later he saw Bian enter the courtyard.
    The man’s a wreck, Brown thought. Bian’s hands were visibly shaking. Trying to cover the movement with a camera, he stopped and looked behind him every few seconds. This is bad. Best case, Bian was simply scared; worst case, he was bait. The sooner Brown could distance himself from Bian the better. He was about to give the wave-off signal when Bian turned, walked directly to the bench, and sat down. “You came.”
    Ah, shit. “You don’t look well.”
    â€œI feel awful. My stomach—”
    â€œNerves.”
    â€œI suppose.”
    â€œYou’ve got to relax. If you’re being watched, they’ve already got us. If you’re not being watched, then your jumpiness is going to get you caught. Me, too, for that matter.” Brown forced some humor into his voice: “I’ll tell ya, if I get thrown in prison, I’ll have hell to pay with my wife.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I just …