D.O.E Headquarters, 3:08 a.m.
Coke walked down the harshly-lit corridor, his footsteps resounding like gunshots on the polished floor. He was a little late, but that was to be expected. Even with little traffic the drive from his appartment to the Department of Energy building in Washington, D.C. would have taken at least twenty-five minutes. It had been all he could do to throw on some clothes and grab his briefcase on his way ou the door. Even so, he must have presented quite a sight: unshaven, his unkempt blond hair mashed every which way, reeking of alcohol. Fotunately the security guard at the front desk was not interested in harassing him and let him pass without so much as second glance at his indentification. It was unlikely that the man knew who Coke was, much less what he actually did. In any case, Coke's comings and goings were so erratic and the guard shifts rotated so often that it was unlikely that this particular guard would even remember him in a half hour. That was the way it usually was with faceless government agencies.
Coke found it supremly ironic that an organization such as his would fall under the umbrella of the DOE. Most civilians probably wouldn't be able to identify what DOE:IN stood for, much less what it did. The lucky few who correctly guessed that it was the Department of Energy's Office of Intelligence probably believed that the bespectacled agents spent their time analyzing sattelite photos of Iraq and North Korea and tracking shipments of uranium, not guarding all of the government's dirty little secrets. Coke himself was smart enough not to ask too many questions about the significance of his work. It was of course inevitable that some of the secrets would leak through. He had seen enough things in the five years since he had joined the DOE: IN to last a lifetime. Things he couldn't explain, things he couldn't believe. Things he generally wished he could forget.
How many people had he already killed? There were those three he knew about for sure. He had been close enough to smell the salty tang of their sweat as they died, hear the almost inaudible gasps they made as their souls took flight. He gathered from snippets of conversations and what some of his coworkers had said over the past years that he had probably been responsible for at least two or three more, but who knew? He never would really know how many people he had sentanced to death by bugging their phones, taking their photographs, or filing his reports. He didn't really want to know. He just did what the chief told him and that was enough.
The office of the man known only as "the chief" was dark save for a single lamp in the back corner of the room. Coke doubted that was the chief's actual office. He was hardly ever there and when he was, he was always meeting with somebody. In any case, noone seemed to know much about him, other that he had been in charge longer than anyone could remember and that noone really knew his name. Somehow Coke didn't think he was ever harassed by the security guards or the janitors who had to clean out his ashtray.
The door was partially ajar, but Coke knew he was in there. Still, he knocked. No response. After a brief pause, he gently pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door behind him.
"You wanted to see me." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Coke hoped he didn't sound too drunk or tired. He didn't particularly care what the chief thought of his personal life one way or another, but he didn't want him thinking that he was losing his edge. That would be fatal.
The chief sat in the shadows, reclining in his plush leather chair and puffing on a cigarette. The ashtray on the table had at three flaky cigarette stumps planted in it already so he had clearly been there for some time. Coke was no longer surprised he could get away with it. The federal government had a strict no-smoking policy in any of its buildings and yet the chief kept at it. It was pretty obvious he was the sort of person who could do whatever he pleased. Finally he broke the silence.
"You're late," he said, his tone calm and accusing at the same time. Coke, although loyal to his masters, had long ago lost patience with this particular boss' smarmy and condescending remarks.
"Yeah, well it's late. What did you expect?"
"I don't like your tone." The voice stayed clam and even, but the smarmyness was gone and had been replaced with a cold, hard edge.
"I don't like being called out of bed at two-thirty in the morning and having to haul my butt out here at the drop of a hat. Everybody has their problems," Coke replied. He knew the boss wouldn't appreceate his attitude, but he was beyond caring at this point.
The chief was silent. If he was angry, his face betrayed no emotion. He sat back in his chair and exhaled a thin cloud of blue smoke which added another layer to the growing haziness of the room. Finally he leaned forward and snubbed out the cigarette. With a fluid rapidity that so often caught people unaware, he changed the subject. "Sit down Steven. We have a situation on our hands. I want you to deal with it." Coke interpreted this as a good sign. At least he had stood up to the chief. Sometimes that endeared you to him. Or at least whatever passed for endearment in the tobacco-stained, carcinogenic universe he inhabited. Coke sat down in the chair opposite the boss' desk.
The chief reached into his blazer suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. "About an hour ago I got a call from Agent Maxey at Fort Meade. Do you know who I'm talking about?" Coke nodded. Fort Meade was among other things the location of the NSA's headquarters. Coke had never worked with Agent Maxey, but he had met him once or twice. He seemed like he had his act together.
The chief pulled a cigarette out of the packet with his lips and picked up the lighter next to the ashtray on the table. "Maxey tells me there's been a leak in the computer system." He thumbed the button down on his lighter and applied the hissing blue flame to the end of the cigarette as he began to draw rythmically, inhaling the smoke. When he was satisfied, he tossed the lighter back down onto the table with a dull thunk and removed the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling as he did so.
"What kind of a leak?" asked Coke, his curiosity piqued.
"A bad one," came the immediate reply. "The kind that dresses in torn blue jeans, wears anarchist t-shirts and enjoys hacking into protected security systems." Coke whistled. Hacking into the NSA's computer network was not unheard of but it was extremely difficult. However, that alone was not enough to attract the chief's attention. No, it must have been much more important that that if they were calling his agency in.
"What did he get into?" The chief's eyes narrowed.
"She. It's a her." That was a surprise. Coke had always imagined hackers as generic "hes." The chief continued. "Nothing, so far. Although she managed to hack into the system, the techs were paying attention for once and were able to interrupt the upload in mid-feed. The information on every one of the systems she was trying to access requires a level-five clearance and thus has a class alpha digital encryption. Without a cypher, the information is indecipherable."
Something didn't make sense. If the information was useless, why was the DOE:IN getting involved? All the NSA had to do was send in the local cops and arrest the girl. If it was the principle of the matter, fine, send the NSA in. But why get Coke involved? Ultimately this was for appearance sake. If the girl posed no threat, why risk unnecessary exposure? Coke was about to speak but the chief cut him off.
"I know what you're thinking Coke. Why are we wasting your time and considerable talents on such an apparently trifling matter?" he mused, snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'll tell you. As stupid as it sounds, the NSA doesn't have backup copies of these documents. The girl didn't just download and copy them, he TOOK them and they are currently in her posession. I don't think I need to tell you how important it is that we get this matter under control and recover our property quickly, before more damage is done."
Coke was stunned. This was not the first time he had been tasked with recovering government property, but it was the first time he had been forced to recover something digital which had actually, quite literally, been stolen. The chief quietly lit another cigarette.
"You look puzzled Agent Coke. Is there a problem?" This brough Coke out of his reverie.
"No sir, there's no problem," he replied, scratching his chin absentmindedly. "It's just that...in this digital day and age I though people made copies of everything. I've never had to recover digital information because someone stole our only copy." The chief chuckled.
"Well, Coke, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"
"I guess," replied Coke sheepishly, annoyed that he had been caught off guard by a man he truly disliked. "So, when do I start?" he asked, eager to change the subject. The chief exhaled slowly, reaching into his top drawer as he did so.
"Tonight," he answered, his voice devoid of emotion. The chief pulled out a standar manilla envalope and slid it across the table. "Everything you need is in there. Names, adresses, money. You know what to do."
"What are my parameters?" asked Coke, sizing up the situation. He could have sworn he saw the boss hesitate before answering.
"You have a green light Coke. This is your new top priority. I don't acre how you pull this off, but make sure it's clean. Recover the documents in 48 hours or there'll be hell to pay."
"What about the target?"
There was no hesitation this time. "Green light, Coke. Terminate her. It's safer that way."
And with that the boss stood up, extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray, and walked out of the office, leaving Coke alone with his thoughts
Coke walked down the harshly-lit corridor, his footsteps resounding like gunshots on the polished floor. He was a little late, but that was to be expected. Even with little traffic the drive from his appartment to the Department of Energy building in Washington, D.C. would have taken at least twenty-five minutes. It had been all he could do to throw on some clothes and grab his briefcase on his way ou the door. Even so, he must have presented quite a sight: unshaven, his unkempt blond hair mashed every which way, reeking of alcohol. Fotunately the security guard at the front desk was not interested in harassing him and let him pass without so much as second glance at his indentification. It was unlikely that the man knew who Coke was, much less what he actually did. In any case, Coke's comings and goings were so erratic and the guard shifts rotated so often that it was unlikely that this particular guard would even remember him in a half hour. That was the way it usually was with faceless government agencies.
Coke found it supremly ironic that an organization such as his would fall under the umbrella of the DOE. Most civilians probably wouldn't be able to identify what DOE:IN stood for, much less what it did. The lucky few who correctly guessed that it was the Department of Energy's Office of Intelligence probably believed that the bespectacled agents spent their time analyzing sattelite photos of Iraq and North Korea and tracking shipments of uranium, not guarding all of the government's dirty little secrets. Coke himself was smart enough not to ask too many questions about the significance of his work. It was of course inevitable that some of the secrets would leak through. He had seen enough things in the five years since he had joined the DOE: IN to last a lifetime. Things he couldn't explain, things he couldn't believe. Things he generally wished he could forget.
How many people had he already killed? There were those three he knew about for sure. He had been close enough to smell the salty tang of their sweat as they died, hear the almost inaudible gasps they made as their souls took flight. He gathered from snippets of conversations and what some of his coworkers had said over the past years that he had probably been responsible for at least two or three more, but who knew? He never would really know how many people he had sentanced to death by bugging their phones, taking their photographs, or filing his reports. He didn't really want to know. He just did what the chief told him and that was enough.
The office of the man known only as "the chief" was dark save for a single lamp in the back corner of the room. Coke doubted that was the chief's actual office. He was hardly ever there and when he was, he was always meeting with somebody. In any case, noone seemed to know much about him, other that he had been in charge longer than anyone could remember and that noone really knew his name. Somehow Coke didn't think he was ever harassed by the security guards or the janitors who had to clean out his ashtray.
The door was partially ajar, but Coke knew he was in there. Still, he knocked. No response. After a brief pause, he gently pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door behind him.
"You wanted to see me." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Coke hoped he didn't sound too drunk or tired. He didn't particularly care what the chief thought of his personal life one way or another, but he didn't want him thinking that he was losing his edge. That would be fatal.
The chief sat in the shadows, reclining in his plush leather chair and puffing on a cigarette. The ashtray on the table had at three flaky cigarette stumps planted in it already so he had clearly been there for some time. Coke was no longer surprised he could get away with it. The federal government had a strict no-smoking policy in any of its buildings and yet the chief kept at it. It was pretty obvious he was the sort of person who could do whatever he pleased. Finally he broke the silence.
"You're late," he said, his tone calm and accusing at the same time. Coke, although loyal to his masters, had long ago lost patience with this particular boss' smarmy and condescending remarks.
"Yeah, well it's late. What did you expect?"
"I don't like your tone." The voice stayed clam and even, but the smarmyness was gone and had been replaced with a cold, hard edge.
"I don't like being called out of bed at two-thirty in the morning and having to haul my butt out here at the drop of a hat. Everybody has their problems," Coke replied. He knew the boss wouldn't appreceate his attitude, but he was beyond caring at this point.
The chief was silent. If he was angry, his face betrayed no emotion. He sat back in his chair and exhaled a thin cloud of blue smoke which added another layer to the growing haziness of the room. Finally he leaned forward and snubbed out the cigarette. With a fluid rapidity that so often caught people unaware, he changed the subject. "Sit down Steven. We have a situation on our hands. I want you to deal with it." Coke interpreted this as a good sign. At least he had stood up to the chief. Sometimes that endeared you to him. Or at least whatever passed for endearment in the tobacco-stained, carcinogenic universe he inhabited. Coke sat down in the chair opposite the boss' desk.
The chief reached into his blazer suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. "About an hour ago I got a call from Agent Maxey at Fort Meade. Do you know who I'm talking about?" Coke nodded. Fort Meade was among other things the location of the NSA's headquarters. Coke had never worked with Agent Maxey, but he had met him once or twice. He seemed like he had his act together.
The chief pulled a cigarette out of the packet with his lips and picked up the lighter next to the ashtray on the table. "Maxey tells me there's been a leak in the computer system." He thumbed the button down on his lighter and applied the hissing blue flame to the end of the cigarette as he began to draw rythmically, inhaling the smoke. When he was satisfied, he tossed the lighter back down onto the table with a dull thunk and removed the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling as he did so.
"What kind of a leak?" asked Coke, his curiosity piqued.
"A bad one," came the immediate reply. "The kind that dresses in torn blue jeans, wears anarchist t-shirts and enjoys hacking into protected security systems." Coke whistled. Hacking into the NSA's computer network was not unheard of but it was extremely difficult. However, that alone was not enough to attract the chief's attention. No, it must have been much more important that that if they were calling his agency in.
"What did he get into?" The chief's eyes narrowed.
"She. It's a her." That was a surprise. Coke had always imagined hackers as generic "hes." The chief continued. "Nothing, so far. Although she managed to hack into the system, the techs were paying attention for once and were able to interrupt the upload in mid-feed. The information on every one of the systems she was trying to access requires a level-five clearance and thus has a class alpha digital encryption. Without a cypher, the information is indecipherable."
Something didn't make sense. If the information was useless, why was the DOE:IN getting involved? All the NSA had to do was send in the local cops and arrest the girl. If it was the principle of the matter, fine, send the NSA in. But why get Coke involved? Ultimately this was for appearance sake. If the girl posed no threat, why risk unnecessary exposure? Coke was about to speak but the chief cut him off.
"I know what you're thinking Coke. Why are we wasting your time and considerable talents on such an apparently trifling matter?" he mused, snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'll tell you. As stupid as it sounds, the NSA doesn't have backup copies of these documents. The girl didn't just download and copy them, he TOOK them and they are currently in her posession. I don't think I need to tell you how important it is that we get this matter under control and recover our property quickly, before more damage is done."
Coke was stunned. This was not the first time he had been tasked with recovering government property, but it was the first time he had been forced to recover something digital which had actually, quite literally, been stolen. The chief quietly lit another cigarette.
"You look puzzled Agent Coke. Is there a problem?" This brough Coke out of his reverie.
"No sir, there's no problem," he replied, scratching his chin absentmindedly. "It's just that...in this digital day and age I though people made copies of everything. I've never had to recover digital information because someone stole our only copy." The chief chuckled.
"Well, Coke, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"
"I guess," replied Coke sheepishly, annoyed that he had been caught off guard by a man he truly disliked. "So, when do I start?" he asked, eager to change the subject. The chief exhaled slowly, reaching into his top drawer as he did so.
"Tonight," he answered, his voice devoid of emotion. The chief pulled out a standar manilla envalope and slid it across the table. "Everything you need is in there. Names, adresses, money. You know what to do."
"What are my parameters?" asked Coke, sizing up the situation. He could have sworn he saw the boss hesitate before answering.
"You have a green light Coke. This is your new top priority. I don't acre how you pull this off, but make sure it's clean. Recover the documents in 48 hours or there'll be hell to pay."
"What about the target?"
There was no hesitation this time. "Green light, Coke. Terminate her. It's safer that way."
And with that the boss stood up, extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray, and walked out of the office, leaving Coke alone with his thoughts