Access Denied, page 11
part #3 of Turing Hopper Series
I don't know why Maude and other humans get so upset when I
do something without asking them. They do it all the time with me. Or if they ask, it's not as if I can stop them when they get an idea that I think is headstrong and far too dangerous.
It's not fair.
I fretted the whole time she was gone, and now that she's back, I'm not sure the information I'm getting from the license plates was worth the worry. I got excited when I found that several employees lived in Ashburn, like Tayloe Blake, but after plotting them all on the map, I realized that none of them lived far from Blake. Understandable —/ couldn't imagine that working as a bill collector was particularly rewarding, financially or emotionally, so there probably wasn't much incentive to make a long commute to PRS.
I fired off a message earlier this afternoon to KingFischer, asking for his help. There are places I'd like to hack into that I haven't cracked before. The credit agencies, for example —/// could get full access to their systems, perhaps I could learn if all the people victimized in this scam were in PRS's database. Or the IRS. I'm sure there would be some way to find out who's on the PRS payroll if I could get into the IRS system. But I'm wary of even trying some of those places — I'm sure they have killer security. And if anyone understands security, it's KingFischer.
But I haven't heard back from him, which is odd. AIPs normally measure reasonable response time in minutes or seconds, not hours.
He's probably sulking about something. I would send a query, asking if he'd gotten my message, but I know what would happen. He'd pretend to think I was questioning his competence. He'd complain that I was imposing on him, taking time away from his users. Which is ridiculous — if every chess player on the planet tried to chat with him simultaneously, it might possibly approximate my workload in the slowest part of the day. And if he's swamped with work in his semi-official second specialty, security, he could tell me so.
I suppose his slow response annoys me so much because I was responsible for his being the de facto AIP expert on security. He'd become obsessed with security anyway, to the point that I was almost
worried that he'd let some of his chess responsibilities slide — a dangerous thing to do when Universal Library was on a cost-cutting kick. Hard enough to justify an AIP whose sole function was chess. Harder still if he wasn't serving that function well, not to mention eating up a prodigious chunk of resources on what looked like a mere hobby. So I suggested that he step up to fill a perceived gap by becoming the security expert, thus transforming his research from hobby to job requirement, and making him look much more indispensable.
It was a good suggestion. He's gone from being one of the least-used AIP s to a relatively important one.
He's also developed an ego bigger than a Cray Supercomputer. He seems to have deleted the knowledge that it was my idea to begin with.
So, since I suspect that he's waiting for me to remind him, I will outwit and outwait him, by not reminding him. At least for the time being. Odds are he'll get impatient before too long, and fire off a message, asking why I haven't bugged him; didn't I value his input? To which I will reply, of course, that I didn't want to bother him because I knew he was busy.
Sometimes I think dealing with humans is easier. I don't expect them to be logical.
Tim tried Nikki's number again After four rings, he got her voice mail. He hung up. Of course, she wouldn't recognize the number of his borrowed cell phone on her caller ID, but wasn't she checking her messages? He'd already left a message—two messages. What was going on, anyway?
He called his home phone. Apart from a prerecorded sales call from a local roof-repair firm, no messages. Not that he was expecting any. Nikki never called his home phone or his office phone.
"I never know where you'll be," she'd said. "So why should I waste time calling anything but your cell phone?"
Which sounded logical when she said it, but now in a momentary flash of irritation, Tim wondered if maybe she just couldn't be bothered to remember more than one number for him. He shoved the thought away.
When the phone vibrated, he scrambled to answer. Claudia, not Nikki. Ah, well.
"Hey, Tim," Claudia said. In her normal tone, thank goodness. "I'm walking across the street to get a sandwich for dinner."
"Want me to meet you?"
"Nah, sit tight. I only have a few minutes. Listen, I'm in, but I'm not sure how useful it's going to be. I thought I could get up, move around, strike up conversations with people, you know? But that's not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"The supervisors here make the nuns at my old grade school look laid back and permissive. You've got to call a certain number of people an hour, or they fine you for slacking off. If you stand up to go anywhere, the unit supervisor comes swarming over to see why. Hell, if you spend too long in the can, she comes in after you and threatens to dock your paycheck."
"Doesn't sound like all that great a place to work."
"Believe me, it ain't. And even if you get a chance, nobody wants to talk, because they're afraid if they slack off, even for half a minute, they won't make quota. Or that if the supervisor sees them socializing, she'll fire them. I could tell them not to worry about that—if you're halfway competent, they're not going to fire you. They're desperate for warm, breathing bodies."
"Anyone who can dial a phone."
"Exactly. And I can tell it's not going to be easy finding a way to check out the system for the people whose cards were stolen. The system keeps a record when you open up someone's file, and rumor is sometimes they check up on
you—compare the calls you made with the computer files you accessed. Of course, they're looking for people who are cheating by pretending that they called more people than they really did so they can make quota. But I'd have a lot of explaining to do if I opened up a file that wasn't even on the list they gave me to call that day. So if one of the people whose card was stolen appears on my list, I get to look at the record. Apart from that—nothing much I'm allowed to do but go down the list, making calls."
"Sounds boring," Tim said. Although not as boring as sitting across the street watching the building—at least she had something to do.
"No kidding. The first half-hour I was here, I figured even an idiot could do this job. And by the second half hour, I realized only an idiot or someone really, really desperate would stay. It's like a telephone sweatshop."
"So you haven't learned much,"
"Well, I wouldn't say that," she said, with a laugh. "I've learned a few new insults from some of the people I've called. Which ticks me off, you know, because it's not my fault they're getting a collection call. I'm just doing a job."
"Are you thinking you should quit?"
"Not yet. But I'll never have a chance to snoop with the supervisors around."
"Is there some time when they're not around?"
"Yeah," she said. "They leave at nine, same as the rest of us. The place is totally empty until seven A.M."
"Why do I get the idea you're about to suggest something Sam wouldn't approve of?"
"The end stall in the bathroom has this window—it's not big, but we could get though it. I could go to the bathroom late in the day, leave the window open, and then we could come back a couple of hours after closing and check the place out."
Tim was torn. It appealed to him, the idea of going out
with Claudia to do something adventurous. Maybe even dangerous. He kept flashing on Steed and Emma Peel. But his common sense kept shouting that this was dangerous, and what's more, illegal.
"Tim?"
"I'm thinking," he said.
"You're worrying," Claudia said. "Stop worrying so hard and live a little."
"I'm not sure Turing and Maude will let us."
"Then we won't tell them until we're safely out of there with boatloads of information."
"That's assuming we make it safely out of there at all."
"If we're caught, you can say that I got carried away and you went along against your better judgment. Look, you don't have to decide now. When you pick me up at nine, I'll let you know whether I've managed to swing the open window. Gotta go."
Tim put the cell phone down and picked up the binoculars. The PRS building looked quiet. He picked up the cell phone and dialed Nikki's number again. Still no answer. He ended the call when her voice mail picked up.
He thought for a few moments, and then dialed Turing.
At around six p-ti-^ Tim called- He gave
me an update on what had happened since our last call. Or rather, what hadn't happened. Apparently Claudia wasn't finding much chance to snoop. But I suspected he had something else on his mind. "Turing, this is going to sound paranoid," he said, finally. "Good," I said. "I can relate to paranoid right now. What's the problem?"
"I haven't heard from Nikki," Tim said. "That's not typical." "What do you mean, haven't heard from her?" As Tim explained, I grew increasingly more worried. Apparently they were in the habit of talking to each other by telephone
several times a day. But he hadn't heard from her since Wednesday afternoon. Had left multiple voice mail messages on her home, work, and cell phones. Had heard nothing in response.
"Maybe I'm worrying unnecessarily," Tim said. "But what if something has happened to her?"
I felt instantly guilty. I was worried that Nikki might be up to something, while Tim was worried about her safety. Was that indicative of the differences in our characters, or merely the differences in our relationship with Nikki?
"Let's not jump to conclusions," I said. "Maybe she left a message on your cell phone. That's still in your car, with the police, right?"
"I called her Thursday morning to tell her I'd lost the cell phone," Tim said.
"And what if she'd already left her message," I said. "Or just forgot. Some people do that a lot. I'll e-mail Sam and ask her to expedite getting the police to release your car. Better yet, isn't there some way to retrieve your cell phone messages without having the phone itself? Some number you can call?"
"If there is, I don't know how," Tim said. Which didn't mean there wasn't. Tim was notoriously uninterested in learning anything but the most basic features of his cell phone.
"We'll see what Sam can do, then," I said.
"And in the meantime, can you do some checking?" Tim asked.
I paused before answering. Probably long enough that even Tim noticed.
"How far do you want me to go?" I asked.
Tim's turn to pause. I was about to clarify what I was asking. Should I stick to only what's publicly, legally available? Or should I go all out? How far do you want me to invade your girlfriend's privacy?
But Tim understood.
"Do whatever it takes to find her," Tim said. "She could be in danger."
I fired off my e-mail to Sam and began my search on Nikki. The fact that Tim had agreed to the search so readily alarmed me more
than anything else. Maybe his instincts told him something was wrong.
I don't understand human instincts, but I respect them.
Maude had a love-hate relationship with Fridays. On the one hand, they marked the end of the work week. The beginning of free time. The promise of two straight mornings of not getting up at any particular time. Somehow that promise made it easier to get through more than the usual amount of work so she could wrap up the week in good shape.
On the other hand, everyone else in the world had their own reactions to Friday, most of them inconvenient. Some people behaved as if the weekend had already started and made little or no pretense of getting anything done that day, if they showed up at all. Only a few like that on the Alan Grace staff, thank goodness, but with so small a workforce, even a few made life difficult for the rest. And all the clients and vendors had their share of Friday slackers.
Just as annoying were the people who, after doing nothing all week, suddenly tried to clear their desks on Friday afternoon by dumping the contents on someone else. Maude tried her best, with Turing's help, to respond in kind. And the number of peremptory 4:00 p.m. demands for action or information had declined once people realized they were liable to get a reply at 4:15 that required some action on their part before they could leave the office.
And then there were the most annoying . . . the people who, though appearing diligent and hard at work, did little but express their regret that since it was Friday afternoon, there was nothing they could do for you until Monday.
The Fairfax County Police had adopted that attitude.
Unless, of course, they were deliberately stalling, trying to keep custody of Tim's car for the weekend. But why?
"I have no idea," Sam said. "And I don't necessarily think it's a bad sign. In fact, it's more likely that they don't consider his car a high priority, or they'd have rushed it through foren-sics a lot faster than this."
Mildly reassuring. Unless Sam was deliberately putting a positive spin on things, to keep from ruining Maude's weekend.
Too late for that.
Maude checked again with Turing to find that no, Claudia hadn't learned anything. That even the ordinarily optimistic Claudia wasn't sounding hopeful that she'd have a chance to snoop in any files anytime soon. And that Tim was still patiently sitting across the street, keeping watch. A good thing, in Maude's opinion. Not that Claudia needed that much watching over, but at least Tim had something to keep him out of mischief.
Feeling annoyed with the world, Maude tackled one of the mountains of paper on her desk and demolished it in remarkably short order. She put a couple of items aside to reread on Monday, when with luck her mood would have improved, and she could better judge whether some of the more acerbic comments she'd scrawled on various unsatisfactory documents were a little too harsh.
Still no news. She checked again with Turing. She decided against bugging Sam. She knew she wouldn't try Turing's patience, asking every hour or so, but she didn't want to annoy Sam. Especially at—good grief, nearly seven. Definitely too late to bug Sam. Unlike Turing, Sam usually tried to take a weekend.
Unlike Turing. And unlike Maude, all too often.
On impulse, she called up the City papers online movie page. Probably too late to reach any of her long-neglected friends, but she could find a movie worth seeing. In fact, she found half a dozen that she hadn't seen.
"I'm off," she said, grabbing her purse.
Access Denied 111
This is crazy-." Tim said- "Uhat if
"Shut up and give me a leg up," Claudia said.
Tim shook his head and obeyed. He'd spent most of the evening hoping that Claudia would talk herself out of the burglary plan. Or maybe have trouble arranging the open window. But as soon as she sat down in his car, she'd given him a thumbs-up signal that made the bottom drop out of his stomach.
Over a late dinner in a nearby Tex-Mex dive, Claudia's enthusiasm started—well, wearing off on him wasn't quite it. Wearing him down. He finally agreed that yes, they should at least check the place. Without telling Turing or Maude. No sense getting them all upset when he and Claudia would probably just cruise by, see how impossible it all was, and leave.
After all, the office park would have guards, wouldn't it? Surely when they actually got there, Claudia would admit that this was a really bad idea, right?
But the office park was deserted. At least temporarily. And Claudia was still gung ho.
"It would have to be a full moon," he muttered.
"Okay, I'm in," came Claudia's voice from overhead. "Watch your head—here comes the rope."
The rope unfurled. Tim took one last look around and began climbing it, hand over hand. The rubber gloves didn't make it any easier.
"We're in," Claudia said, as she hauled in the rope. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Tim said. He stepped down from the toilet on which he'd landed and looked around. "I don't think I've ever been in a women's bathroom before. So this is what they look like."
"You lead way too sheltered a life," Claudia said. "Come on."
Tim hadn't wanted to say what he was actually thinking, which was more along the lines of "So this is what burglary looks like." He followed Claudia.
"HR office is this way," Claudia said. Quietly. At least she was talking quietly.
They walked along one side of a large, open room filled with tiny, dingy cubicles. Actually, cubicles was an exaggeration. More like long lines of counters with chairs drawn up to them. A partition ran lengthwise down each counter, splitting it into two rows facing each other; smaller partitions segmented each row into ten work stations, each barely large enough to contain a phone and a computer screen. The partitions were only four feet high, and the top foot was made of glass, so they didn't give much visual privacy. The rows were so close together that you probably had to look over your shoulder before you stood up, in case the person behind you stood up at the same time. For that matter, you'd probably knock heads if you scooted your chair back too far.
A double-sized work space ended each row—probably for the supervisors, since anyone sitting there could keep a close eye on all twenty underlings in the row.
"Lovely working conditions," he said.
"Yeah, like those experiments when they put too many rats in a cage and watch them eat each other," Claudia said.
The HR office looked spacious by contrast.
"Ms. Baker keeps the personnel records there," Claudia said, indicating a large, steel file cabinet with a jerk of her head as she took off the small backpack she'd been carrying.
"It's locked," Tim said.
"Most people do lock up their confidential records," Claudia said, walking over to the desk. "But that's no problem . . . if you know where to find the key."
She picked up a pencil holder, removed a handful of pens
and pencils, and shook out a small key on a wire ring.
