The Prophecy

21

Randy Raskin sat in his basement office, surrounded by next-generation computers and paper-thin digital screens that would be the envy of every hacker in the world. Unfortunately, due to his classified position at the Pentagon, he wasn’t allowed to mention anything about his work or his equipment to his friends. As far as they knew, he was nothing more than a low-level programmer, working a dead-end job in the world’s largest office building, because that’s what he was required to tell them. But in reality, he was a high-tech maestro, able to track down just about anything in the world of cyberspace.

‘Research,’ he said as he answered his phone.

‘Is this Raskin?’ the voice growled on the other end of the line.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where the hell is my data?’

Raskin leaned forward in his chair. ‘What data, sir?’

‘Don’t mess with me, son! Not today!’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Raskin stuttered, as he frantically glanced through the files on his desk. ‘I don’t recognize your voice, sir. Who am I speaking with?’

‘Sandecker!’ the voice barked. ‘Admiral James Sandecker!’

Raskin gulped. He was familiar with the name but couldn’t quite place it. And in a building like the Pentagon — where admirals and generals wielded all the power — that was dangerous. He knew if he pissed off the wrong officer, his life would become a living hell. Frantically, he typed Sandecker’s name into one of his military search engines but came up empty.

‘Sir,’ he apologized, ‘I’m having trouble finding your files. If you tell me who called in your request, I can check his name as well.’

‘Gunn. Rudi Gunn. My second in command at NUMA.’

‘Rudi Gunn,’ Raskin repeated. That name sounded familiar, too, but once again, he got zero hits in his network search. Obviously there was something wrong with his system. ‘Sir, what type of research am I looking for? Perhaps I can—’

‘What type of research?’ he barked, incredulously. ‘You better find my data now, before it’s too late. Dirk Pitt is in serious trouble!’

‘Dirk Pitt?’ he mumbled into the phone. Suddenly, Raskin realized why all those names sounded familiar. They were fictional characters in the novels of Clive Cussler. ‘You asshole! Don’t ever do that to me again! I thought the entire Atlantic fleet was waiting on me.’

‘Asshole? Who are you calling an asshole?’

‘Both of you,’ Raskin blurted. Very few people had his direct line, and the only guys he knew who had the guts to mess with him were Payne and Jones. ‘Seriously, you idiots should hear my heartbeat right now. It sounds like a machine gun.’

Jones laughed, finally willing to speak in his normal voice. ‘How would you know what a machine gun sounds like? You never leave your desk.’

‘Dude, video games are very realistic nowadays. Especially on this setup. It’s practically the same thing as being a MANIAC. Except, you know, the whole asshole thing.’

‘Come on,’ Payne said into the speakerphone, ‘you have to admit it was funny. Besides, considering all the pranks you’ve pulled on us, you got off rather easy.’

Raskin broke into a wide grin, remembering everything he had done to Payne and Jones in the last year. His all-time favourite was creating a fake personal ad for Jones, which he simultaneously posted on over 500 dating sites around the world — including one that specialized in Eastern European transsexuals. To this day, Jones was still getting messages from pre-operative men named Olga and Svetlana.

‘So,’ Raskin said, ‘was there a reason you called, or can I hang up on you now?’

Jones answered. ‘No, there’s an actual reason. Someone tried to kill us last night.’

Raskin scoffed at the news. ‘Someone tries to kill you every week.’

‘Good point, but they tried again this morning.’

‘Fine,’ he yawned. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘A couple of things,’ Payne said. ‘I got some prints from last night’s shooter, but IAFIS came up empty. We were hoping you could check some of your military databases.’

‘You think he was a soldier?’

‘Maybe.’

‘One of ours?’

Payne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t talk to the guy. He was too busy shooting at me.’

‘What’s your point? When I’m shooting at a guy, I talk smack all the time.’

‘Yeah, but you’re doing it online. That’s slightly different.’

‘Not really,’ Raskin said as he opened the necessary program on his system. ‘Our games are pretty damn intense. The loser has to pay for beer.’

‘Oh,’ Jones mocked, ‘that sounds just like Iraq.’

Raskin grinned, glad he was getting under their skin. It was the least he could do after the whole Sandecker episode. ‘Are you sending me the prints or what?’

‘I already did. Check your e-mail.’

Raskin clicked on the message, then went to work. Within a few seconds, he had opened up the digital scans of the prints and started running them through multiple databases, spread across several of his computer screens. Faces and fingerprints flashed all around him, yet his eyes stayed glued to the monitor in front of him. ‘This might take a while. What else did you need?’

‘Can you access data on active criminal cases?’ Payne wondered.

‘Of course, I can.’

‘What about a homicide that happened this morning?’

‘God,’ Raskin groaned, ‘who did you kill now?’

‘Actually, that’s what I want to find out.’

‘Please tell me it wasn’t another hooker.’

‘Hey,’ Jones joked, ‘the first two had it coming.’

‘Time out,’ Payne said, putting a stop to the humour. ‘We’re trying to ID this morning’s shooter, and I was unable to get his prints before the cops showed up.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Less than two hours.’

Raskin gave it some thought. ‘Where did this happen?’

‘In Pittsburgh, near my office.’

‘Then the answer is maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

Raskin nodded. ‘CSI units in most major cities have hand-held scanners that can take fingerprints at the crime scene. With a touch of a button, they can upload the data to their station where an officer can run the prints. No ink, no smudges, no waiting.’

‘So,’ Jones said, ‘if the Pittsburgh police have uploaded the data—’

‘Then I can pluck it off their system. If not, we’ll have to wait.’

‘Can you check—’

‘Already on it,’ Raskin said as the clicking of his keys filled the room. He remained quiet for a few seconds as he circumvented multiple firewalls and searched for back doors that would give him access to the files that he required. Eventually, he found what he was searching for.

‘Gotcha, you little bastard!’ Raskin taunted.

‘Got what?’ Payne wondered.

‘Right now,’ he answered, ‘I’m e-mailing you a digital copy of the victim’s fingerprints for your personal scrapbook. I know how you serial killers love your precious mementos.’ He chuckled as he continued working. ‘In addition, I’m piggybacking my original search, which will allow me to look for both of your shooters at the exact same time. Kind of a buy-none-get-two-free sale, Randy Raskin style.’

Jones glanced at Payne. ‘Did he just say Randy Raskin style?’

‘I think he did.’

‘Does he know he said it aloud?’

‘I think he does.’

‘Should we get him some help?’

‘I think we should.’

Raskin ignored them and kept on typing. ‘God, I’m good.’

‘Randy,’ Jones asked, concerned, ‘when was the last time you left the office?’

‘I don’t know. What month is this?’

Payne laughed and shook his head. ‘Hey Randy, we have some leads we need to pursue on our end. Can you give us a call if you find something?’

‘Will do, Admiral. Call you later.’

‘Thanks, man. We appreciate it.’

The sound of typing continued long after they hung up the phone.