The Delta Chain (6 page)

Years ago it had been a food processing
plant. That business went bust in the late ‘90’s and it had stood,
deserted, until Westmeyer’s team bought it over ten years later.
They’d moved from their previous locale in the United States and
rebuilt in a modern chrome and glass design, adding the latest of
technology. There was nothing cold and clinical, though, about this
building. Open floor plan entry, skylights and the creative
landscaping of the grounds made sure of that.

At the time, Westmeyer had been widely quoted
in the Queensland press. ‘If Hollywood can build studios here and
come over to film international movie productions,’ he had said,
‘then I don’t see why other specialised industries, scientific
research for one, shouldn’t do the same and make use of the
wonderful resources here.’

‘Morning, Tony.’ Kate breezed past reception,
calling out to Tony Collosimo, chief of Westmeyer’s small, in-house
security team. Collosimo was standing just outside the door to his
office, which was set back and to the corner of the entry lobby. He
was a middle aged, powerful looking man with dark eyes and a gruff
but polite manner.

Kate took the lift to the first floor and
moments later, a hot cup of cocoa in one hand, she was seated at
her PC in the small office, or glorified work cubicle as she
thought of it, on the west wing of the floor.

She logged on to the PC and first up on the
screen was her daily calendar/reminders.

GOOD MORNING, KATE.

YOUR REMINDERS FOR TODAY ARE-

BUY AND SEND A CARD FOR GREG’S BIRTHDAY. ONLY
SEVEN DAYS TO GO.

Oh yes, yes. She mustn’t forget her brother’s
thirtieth. She’d drive into town at lunchtime and buy the card. She
wondered whether she’d ever remember any birthdays if it wasn’t for
her PC. The calendar software, like most of the systems she worked
with, had been designed by her employer, James Reardon, CEO of
Australian Business Computer Solutions, (A.B.C.S.) or Abcess as it
was cynically referred to by some.

After Westmeyer set up his research centre in
Australia he’d contracted A.B.C.S. to create a unique and totally
secure internal computer network. Part of the package was that once
the system was up and running, one of Reardon’s consultants would
spend six months at the centre, training staff on the system’s
special features, and ironing out any bugs.

The second reminder, which she’d entered just
the day before, was a prompt to phone Betty Joel at Abcess’ HQ in
Fortitude Valley, a business sector in the city of Brisbane. Kate
dialled the number and a moment later Betty’s warm motherly tones
sounded over the line.

‘Hiya, Billy,’ Kate opened with the same
running gag she’d used for years with Betty, ‘written any good
songs lately?’

‘Just finished one. Very up-tempo. Called “I
didn’t start the fire, Kate did.” Betty Joel prided herself on
having as quick a wit as the legendary singer/songwriter who almost
shared her name.

‘I’m still having trouble with the network
here, Betty. Two more program crashes yesterday.’

‘But you ran the anti-viral program through
the network last week. Said it was all hunky dory.’

‘So it appeared for three
won
-derful
days. The legendary Mr. Westmeyer was over the moon, treated me
like teacher’s pet. But now it’s happening again and things are
getting more than tense.’

‘That anti-viral program is
state-of-the-art,’ Betty said, mystified, ‘we bought it in from the
U.S., adapted it…’

Kate cut in. ‘I know its pedigree. And I
can’t understand why it appeared to have done its job – almost a
full week clear – but now the virus is attacking again. At least I
didn’t understand it…but now…’

‘You
know
why the virus is still
crashing the systems out there?’

‘I have a theory, and it’s
just
a
theory,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t think this is just some variation on a
common computer virus that cyber jerks send out to cause mayhem. I
think it was specially designed, so that it wouldn’t be nuked by
our A-V program. Designed to have specific defences against our
program because someone knew exactly what our A-V program was.’

Betty was quick to respond. ; ‘But that can’t
be…’

‘Unless someone from Abcess created this
virus and inserted it into the network here.’ There, Kate thought,
I’ve said it.

‘But surely that could only have been
Rhonda.’

‘Rhonda,’ Kate agreed.

Rhonda Lagan was the systems analyst first
sent to the research centre by A.B.C.S. She was in her fifth month
when she’d died unexpectedly in a car accident. A.B.C.S. didn’t
have another consultant available to fill in for the last four
weeks of the six-month stint, but soon after, the Institute began
having system crashes. Westmeyer’s own IT guys managed to keeps
things running, but they couldn’t locate the problem. This went on
for two months. It was then that Kate, having completed another
assignment, was sent in by James Reardon.

It didn’t take her long to establish there
was a random virus in the network, scrambling data and crashing
individual files, like a mischievous gremlin that kept evading
capture. No sooner had Kate fixed one of the damaged sections of
the network than another part went down. It was like plastering one
crack in a wall only for another to appear.

The moment it was available, Abcess had sent
in the newly adapted anti-viral program.

After a pause, Betty said, ‘I think you’d
better explain.’

‘Who else,’ said Kate, ‘could have designed a
virus that knew how to recognise and work around our A-V program?
Who else was in a position to set it up so perfectly within the
network?’

‘Okay. But you and I both know, kid, it’s not
enough.’

‘There’s something else, Betty. I’ve been
checking and re-checking the records here. Looking for anything,
any small detail, that might offer a clue.’

‘And?’

‘The virus first appeared exactly 48 hours
after Rhonda’s death. It was a Thursday. Rhonda would’ve normally
logged on to the system twice by then.’

‘You’re suggesting the virus was programmed
to raise its ugly head after two of Rhonda’s log-ons were
missed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know you have a vivid imagination, Kate,
but…’ Betty paused briefly. Then: ‘You’ve been pulling my
leg…?’

‘No, Betty. Not over something like this. I’m
deadly serious.’

‘Whatever got you thinking this way?’

‘I’ve been trying to look beyond the obvious.
Something about this virus starting just after Rhonda’s death; and
the random, elusive aspect of it. Something felt…very weird.’

‘Granted. It’s weird.’

‘I decided to scan Rhonda’s personal files. I
knew she’d maintained a daily diary on her PC. So I went in. The
diary’s listed on her screen menu but guess what? It’s been
deleted. The whole thing. So I ran a print report on all data
entries on her PC for the previous four months.’

‘I’m not liking the sound of this, Kate.’

‘The command to delete the diary was made on
Wednesday, the day
after
Rhonda died.’

‘There’s an awful big series of question
marks over this…theory of yours,’ Betty said. ‘Why would someone
have any interest in deleting Rhonda’s diary? How would they know
her password? And why would Rhonda herself create a virus?’

‘Rhonda could’ve programmed this virus to
start after she’d missed a couple of log-ons. For some reason she
may have had reason to suspect something could happen to her. In
that event, a virus like this would need Abcess to investigate
it…’

‘And in doing so,’ Betty, seeing where this
was headed, completed the thought, ‘would lead one of us to suspect
that there was something odd about Rhonda’s accident.’

‘Yes. Look, I know there’s no motives, no
reasons, no actual proof of any kind. It’s just I’ve been casting
my mind about, looking for something…anything…’

‘And you found these strange little
inconsistencies.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘So what’s next, Kate? You want to speak to
the boss about this?’

James Reardon was the founder and CEO of
A.B.C.S. Kate had always thought of Reardon as a typical young
dot.com entrepreneur who’d survived as much by good luck as good
management. He’d started out just ten years earlier as a software
creator, saw the business opportunities for a firm like A.B.C.S.
and set it up, modelling its style and structure on similar
start-ups in the U.S., where he spent much of his time expanding
the company.

‘I haven’t got any proof to go to James
with,’ Kate said. ‘You know what he’s like, a total workaholic.
Doesn’t relate to anything outside of the industry.’

‘I’m glad you said that before I had to,’
Betty said. ‘For James to take it seriously you’d need facts,
details, crystal clear evidence. Of which you have none. Our
baby-faced leader would’ve gone into one of his hyped up lectures
about pragmatism and practicality. The last one went for days. What
do
you plan to do?’

‘Not sure. But I want to start by reading
through Rhonda’s diary. See if it yields a clue. I know all her
work files were sent over the ISDN for archiving at HQ. But what
about personal files, like the diary? Would she send them as
well?’

‘Yes. Rhonda gathered all her files, every
day, and sent them as one big digital package. The same thing, my
dear, I’ve been telling the rest of you to start doing more than
once a week.’

‘Okay, so occasionally there’s some benefit
to bureaucracy.’

‘I’ll send you an email with the diary as an
attachment. In fact, I’ll download it and have a read through
myself.’

‘Betty, you know I keep a private email
address?’

‘You want me to send the file there?’

‘Yes. I want to keep it away from the network
here. Just a precaution.’

‘Kate, you be careful out there, okay?’

‘Now that’s a little melodramatic, even for
you.’

‘Hey, you’re the one who started with these
nasty little conspiracy theories. I’m not convinced you’re on the
right track, though, and in fact I hope you’re not.’

‘I hope not too,’ Kate said before saying her
good-byes and hanging up. But like Betty, Kate had been around IT
systems long enough to know her theory was a likely possibility. It
explained the virus’ ability to outmanoeuvre the ant-viral
software.

But why?

Kate didn’t like the way her thoughts kept
snowballing, from one possibility to another. It had been happening
since she’d discovered the diary had been trashed. She’d managed to
switch off during the evening, while she’d been with Adam, but her
mind had been back to doing its cartwheels again this morning.

Turning to her screen, Kate saw that her
Meetings Menu had flashed. ‘Damn,’ she muttered to herself, leaping
up from her chair. She didn’t want to be late for William
Westmeyer’s boardroom presentation to potential investors.

Melanie Cail arrived at the office early,
7.30, as was her routine. Over a steaming coffee she waded through
the e-mails and voicemails from the previous afternoon, the latest
updates from the news services, and the morning dispatches from
local police and emergency.

The only thing to pique her interest was the
police dispatch about the drowning victim. It was the kind of item
that might find a small spot toward the middle of the newspaper’s
general news section.

But if Melanie could find a strong angle then
it could be a much bigger story – maybe even front page – and after
several slow weeks, Melanie Cail, reporter for the Northern Rocks
Express, needed a big story.

As usual the dispatch was brief, but as she
sipped the coffee Melanie’s instincts went into overdrive. Why was
the young woman naked? Why hadn’t someone reported her as missing?
Was she a murder victim? A suicide? Had she been part of a boating
accident that left others stranded, or in peril?

She knew she was being monitored closely by
the management of the Brisbane City Chronicle and that their final
decision on the vacant reporting post was just weeks away. She
cursed under her breath as she had every morning for the past
fortnight. She’d never known a quieter, blander time, news wise, in
Northern Rocks. Not that the region ever hopped with excitement
from a dramatic news standpoint, but right now it had never been
slower. Melanie needed something to sink her teeth into, to
showcase her investigative skills.

She needed a big story…

She put down her coffee and reread the last
sentence of the dispatch. The body had been discovered by a local
fisherman…

Her older sister’s boyfriend was a keen
after-hours fisherman. Costas often cast his line from the local
beach. Was it possible…? She picked up the phone and punched in the
numbers rapid fire, machine gun speed. Petite, blonde and
vivacious, Melanie was the kind of person who was hyper from the
moment she opened her eyes of a morning. Once her reporting
instincts and the caffeine had taken hold she started firing on all
six cylinders
plus.

Barbara’s number was engaged. Melanie cursed
again, then swivelled her chair to face her PC. The newspaper’s
vast library of information, drawn from its own and other papers’
news articles, was on hard drive. She entered her password and then
typed ‘Drownings-Queensland’ and the menu listed over a dozen
recent incidents. Anything over twelve months ago would need to be
accessed from the archives stored on disk.

Melanie scanned the list. In the back of her
mind she could remember something similar, not too long ago. At the
moment she was prepared to search for anything and she did,
clutching at straws, anything to uncover a potential angle to pump
up the story. Something to push her onto the front page. Where she
belonged.