BEST SERVED COLD
CHAPTER 1: CRUEL INTENTIONS
Sarah Gibbens look up from her desk near the double-door entrance to Mr. McKannen's office and swallowed, not for the first time. The Feds trusted her on this. People's livelihoods were depending on her. However, Sarah knew that Mr. McKannen was a hard man, a dangerous man. Few knew how hard; the CEO and President of McKannen Industries had a poker face like a stone block, and a physique to match. Power, influence, wealth, and physically powerful; all the ingredients for a very dangerous man.
Sarah had been working at this company for years, since before Mr. McKannen's father had died. She'd been his personal secretary and assistant back then, and retained that position after his son had inherited the business. But the gulf between the kindly old Howard McKannen and his son Douglas was as vast as day and night. Howard McKannen had had a huge heart, an open mind and a kindly way with anyone and everyone, mutant or not. Douglas McKannen showed no such compassion; if anything, Sarah privately believed the new CEO was frightened by the thought of mutants, who had fantastic powers that all his cold, hard cash could not match. Sarah also prudently kept this opinion to herself. As before, Douglas McKannen was not to be trifled with, and Sarah had a daughter to provide for.
But not much longer, Sarah thought with a smile, her first all day. Tracy's almost all grown up. Graduation's just a few more correspondence courses away. The thought stopped her typing fingers cold.
Thinking about those correspondence courses brought Sarah's mind back to the problem at hand. Sarah had long suspected that Tracy was a mutant, even above and beyond the rare case of albinism that she'd been born with. Beneath her pink-white skin and baby-blue eyes, the promise of untold power lurked within Tracy Gibbens. Sarah hoped that her cooperation with the FBI would ensure her daughter's future.
It will certainly ensure the future of at least three thousand other mutants working for this company, Sarah thought grimly, typing viciously. Mr. McKannen the elder had meant it when he had first proclaimed McKannen Industries to be an equal-opportunity employer; mutants all over the Manhattan area had cautiously trickled to his business. He'd interviewed each of them personally, setting each with a job that fit their unique abilities for the benefit of the company, or another company that could be contracted with. Profits had virtually skyrocketed. When the old man had finally passed on, things looked bleak for the mutant workers. There were already rumors that Mr. McKannen the younger was going to oust all mutant workers for good. After all, McKannen Industries had far exceeded their projections for the last ten years running. Surely there was a surplus of funds. The company wouldn't miss three thousand workers out of thirty thousand.
It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen, Sarah thought determinedly. The FBI has insiders, but they needed someone close enough to Mr. McKannen to get what they need. Sarah gulped again. I guess I'm just too good-natured to let three thousand people go jobless this close to Christmas. She nearly jumped out of her chair as the door to Mr. McKannen's office swung open.
"Ms. Gibbens," Douglas McKannen said pleasantly, "Would you mind straightening up the office, filing those new projection reports and making me a fresh pot of coffee?" His face went from forbidding to full-on charmer in a flat half-second, complete with a dazzling white smile. Sarah might have been impressed or even flattered if her heart wasn't in her throat.
"Yes, Mr. McKannen, right away," she replied, sounding almost normal. McKannen nodded absently and headed down the hall towards the elevator. Jerk, she thought to his back.
This was the chance Sarah needed. She put away the documents she'd been typing, slipped her purse over her shoulder, and headed into the lion's den.
"We need files that will prove his intentions without a doubt," the FBI man had told her, "Bank accounts, the mutant employee profiles, anything. Try to find out if there've been any large transactions to foreign companies or customers while you're at it."
Mr. McKannen's office was huge. It probably took up the better part of the entire floor, and had a panoramic view of New York City, thirty stories below. The view only added to Sarah's nerves; she was petrified of heights. Sarah steeled herself and went to McKannen's desk. The reports he'd mentioned were still lying on his desk. Sarah flipped through them quickly and confirmed that actual profits had exceeded the projections by 43 percent this last year. Again. Sarah tucked the reports back into the folder and set them aside. Rifling quickly through the desk, she found nothing else of major importance.
I guess this is it. Here goes nothing.
Sarah took the mouse to his computer and wiggled it slightly. The dark screen brightened, showing that McKannen had, as always, locked out his private account. We'll just see about that.
Sarah opened her purse and extracted a black CD-ROM that the FBI agent had given her. "It's a password breaker," he'd explained, "If his computer's any good, it'll automatically read anything you stick in the drive, lock or no lock. The program on the disk will decipher the password and open the account. Remember, get in quick, get as much as you can, then get out again. We don't know what kind of security McKannen's got rigged to his system."
Sarah slipped the disk into the drive and waited. The little orange light flickered to life and the drive whirred as is went to work. A window opened up over the screen-lock.
Loading…
Connected…
Negotiating with Host…
Deciphering…
Password Decrypted
"Yes," Sarah whispered under her breath. With the account open, Sarah leafed through McKannen's hard drive. There were dozens of folders. Sarah copied one labeled 'Transaction Register, 2002', another labeled 'Potential Losses, 2003', and one labeled 'Future Prospects, 2004-2024'. For good measure, she also copied design specs, patents, tax files from the last ten years, and even plans for products that were in the experimental and developmental stages. She was about to log off and leave, when an idea formed. My computer has a list of files that I opened recently. I wonder if his has the same thing?
Clicking on the Start Menu, Sarah went to the bar labeled Documents. It was right there, identical to Sarah's computer. She was disappointed, though, because there was only one file listed, in a folder entitled 'Quad-Zero X'. THAT sounds interesting.
Sarah clicked on the folder and waited expectantly. She cursed quietly but with feeling as another password window opened up. Very interesting. Once again the disk drive whirred, and Lock Breaker began working its digital magic.
Negotiating with Host…
Deciphering…
Password Decrypted
Sarah let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and scanned the opened file. It was a detailed outline of something called "Project Helot". After just a few seconds, she went white and shivered as a chill crawled up her spine.
"Jesus," she whispered, horrified. Her stomach abruptly flipped-flopped and tied itself into a sickening knot. Sarah suddenly knew that more was at stake her than her job, or even the jobs of the three thousand mutants that she was hacking her boss's computer for. This could mean her life, her daughter's life, and not just three thousand mutants, but maybe also every mutant in the entire United States!
Oh…my…God! I've got to get out of here! Out of town! I need to get to Tracy—NOW!
Sarah broke into cold sweat as she copied the file folder onto the disk, and then slid the disk out of the drive. Her finger stopped above the mouse as she prepared to log off.
No – wait. Can't panic. I've got to think this through carefully. I need insurance.
Sarah purloined another CD-ROM disk from McKannen's desk, and slipped it into the drive. Then she copied every folder that would fit into it, making sure that the file folder 'Quad-Zero X' went into it first. The little bar opened up and began to crawl its way across the screen, with maddening slowness. The seconds ticked by, the weight of each one adding more and more urgency.
"Come on," Sarah snarled. Her breath came faster and shallower, her pulse began to race. Every little nerve in her body wanted to run from this office, this building, this city, and flee with her daughter to somewhere safe—somewhere very far away. Her senses went into overdrive. Sarah felt like she was sitting on a time bomb.
Which might actually be safer for all involved, she thought wryly, which is a lot more than anyone would even chance to guess.
The little bar beeped the end of its journey and Sarah slipped the disk out of the drive. She put the first one in her purse, and then considered the second one, finally tucking it into her bra, where no self-respecting security guard would feel up. She logged out carefully, making sure to lock it again, as Mr. McKannen had left it.
She flew through the office to straighten things up, put away documents with a little more speed than care, and grabbed her purse. She walked—slowly—back out the door and sat back down at her computer. She didn't look back. She never saw the blinking red light on the back of the little Web-Cam mounted on top of McKannen's computer monitor.
After closing out all of her currently open files, Sarah clicked on her Internet Explorer. She logged open her e-mail, and as her cyber-handle Tragedy discreetly contacted her agent, whose cyber-handle (at least presently) was Sp00kyMuld3r.
Chee—zee, yet appropriate, in a kind of 'conspiracy-theory' sorta way. Sarah sighed, as she waited for the chat room to open.
Sp00kyMuld3r: Is it done? Did it work? Did you get anything?
Tragedy: Yes, everything worked. I've got it. Now help me get rid of it. Where do you want to meet?
Sp00kyMuld3r: Be in front of Carnegie Hall tomorrow at exactly 1300, that's 1 PM for you civilian types. Look for a guy with a goatee, a silver New England Patriots jacket, and a red beanie, leaning against the wall. He'll be holding a lotto ticket. Wear a pair of blue jeans, a black sweater, sunglasses, and that little 'X' pin I gave you. Got all that?
Tragedy: Carnegie Hall, 1 o clock, goatee, silver NE Patriots jacket & red beanie leaning against the wall. Lotto ticket. Wear blue jeans, black sweater, sunglasses, X-pin. Easy. Got it.
Sp00kyMuld3r When you see your man, walk over and ask, 'Feeling lucky?' Your man will respond, 'The odds are only three thousand to one.' If he doesn't say those EXACT words, run like hell to the nearest uniform, OK?
Tragedy: Feeling lucky. Three thousand to one. 'K.
Sp00kyMuld3r: Your Uncle Sam will love you for this.
Tragedy: Well Merry X-mas to him. Bye.
Sarah logged out of the chat room as McKannen returned.
"Is everything all right?" he said in exactly the same artificially friendly tone.
"Yes, Mr. McKannen." Sarah hid behind an equally artificial smile, but nearly lost it as she suddenly remembered. Oh shit! The coffee!
"Uhm…I'm very sorry, Mr. McKannen, but we're out of coffee grounds. I'll have Supply Department bring some up right away."
"That's quite all right," he responded, sounding generous, "You should probably go home now, Ms. Gibbens. You look, ah, quite tired. A bit stressed, perhaps. Go relax for a while. Take tomorrow off, if you wish. Oh, and tell your daughter Merry Christmas for me." Although his tone had changed not a bit, Sarah knew a dismissal when she heard one.
Sadistic, arrogant, bigoted bastard. I hope you have 'Merry Christmas' in a federal prison with an inmate who's bigger than you! I hope you rot in Hell.
"I will, Mr. McKannen. Merry Christmas to you too." Sarah hoped he wouldn't notice the trickle of sweat that ran down the back of her scalp. On the contrary, McKannen suddenly looked quite pleased with himself, straightened his tie and jacket, and then turned toward his office.
"Good night, Ms. Gibbens."
"Good night, Mr. McKannen."
Douglas McKannen, corporate CEO, multi-millionaire businessman never even saw the dark little smile that plain, ordinary Sarah Gibbens, professional secretary, single mom, bestowed on the man she was going to ruin.