Virtual Vandals

Chapter 9

Even a night’s sleep hadn’t completely erased the headache from Matt’s crash — literal and figurative — with Cat Corrigan’s system. As he rode to school on the autobus, Matt daydreamed about confronting the girl, grabbing her, giving her a good shaking. Didn’t she know he was trying to help her?

Annoyed, Matt shook his head — and wished he hadn’t. Of course she didn’t know he was trying to help her. He really wasn’t. He was trying to track down the virtual vandals who’d caused such chaos and hurt Leif Anderson. Was he getting turned around because one of those vandals turned out to be pretty…and scared?

Besides, there was no way he could confront Caitlin without giving away his identity. Not unless he wanted to give a new target to this bunch of nuts who could shoot people in holoform.

But with Caitlin hiding out from him, he’d lost any chance of unmasking the other members of the group.

Or had he?

Prep period seemed louder than usual, thanks to Matt’s continuing headache. But he pushed that aside, waving over Andy Moore and David Gray.

“Idiots,” Andy growled. His sunburnt face had reached the peeling stage, and he was pretty annoyed that some classmates had hung the nickname “Scab” on him. Between anger and the remaining burn, his face looked redder than ever.

“Keep that up, and they’ll start calling you ‘Tomato,’” David warned. “Besides, you’ve stuck some people with a few nicknames. If you dish it out—”

“Yeah, I know, I’m supposed to take it,” Andy grumbled. “But that doesn’t say anything about having to like it.”

He grinned at Matt. “So how’s the big investigation going? I figured that’s why you dragged us over — especially since we barely heard a word from you after Saturday. Have you been spending all your time with…Caitlin?”

Andy made the girl’s name sound incredibly gooey, finishing with a romantic sigh.

Matt didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or angry. “Get over it!” he snapped. “I’m trying to get a line on the three guys who are in the group.”

“You mean Caitlin hasn’t told you yet?” Andy asked pointedly.

“Why not give it a rest, Scab?” David said. Then, ignoring Andy, he turned to Matt. “What can I do to help?”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Andy said quickly. “I want to help, too.”

Matt pulled two datascrips from his schoolbag. Each contained copies of the file Matt had gotten from the Net Force computers — the diplomatic brats who’d been in contact with Cat Corrigan.

“I’ve got two lists on these. One tallies a couple of hundred foreign guys who’ve been seen with Caitlin Corrigan. The other is the top-ten listing of diplo-brats who know her. What I need to know is how many of these guys would qualify as hackers.”

Matt scowled. “Somebody had to come up with the programming that lets the virtual vandals do what they do. They didn’t buy it in their friendly neighborhood Micro-Shop.”

Andy’s eyebrows zoomed toward his hairline. “So you think the kick-butt program was developed by a mad genius on Diplomatic Row?”

“I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “But I do know that the other vandals seem to be foreigners. One’s a Brit, another speaks with some kind of European accent. And the third doesn’t seem to speak English at all. So I’ve got two sorting jobs to do.”

“I call dibs on checking the language thing!” Andy swiftly said. “I’m betting there aren’t many people in diplomatic circles nowadays who can’t speak English. It’s the lingo everybody uses in international politics and business. Who’d want to have an ambassador standing around like a dummy?”

“So you figure that sort of diplomat would…stand out?” David asked.

Andy nodded smugly.

“Of course, with that kind of handicap, an ambassador might want to keep his ignorance a secret,” David went on.

Andy suddenly looked nervous.

“On the other hand,” David said, “computer courses or awards should be a matter of public record.” He gave his pal a big, cheerful grin. “Gee, I’m so glad I got offered the easy job.”

Matt was still chuckling as he headed for his first-period class.

There wasn’t much else for Matt to enjoy during the day. With all the investigation he’d been doing, his classwork had suffered. It seemed word immediately went out on TeacherNet, because every class instructor seemed to find some way to drag him over the coals.

At lunch, Sandy Braxton was sympathetic. “Mr. Fairlie really nailed you today,” the rich kid said. “I thought he only saved those kind of zingers for me.” Sandy started to laugh, but cut off in mid-chuckle. “I hope our project isn’t distracting you too much.”

More likely, he’s now worrying that I’m going to mess up whatever part he doesn’t, Matt thought.

Whatever his worry, Sandy seemed to forget it as he talked about something he’d discovered in his research on the Battle of Gettysburg. It turned out he had an ancestor who’d fought at the battle. “My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather joined a Virginia regiment and fought until Gettysburg,” Sandy said. “He got his arm shot off.”

“Did it happen during Pickett’s Charge?” Matt asked. If he remembered correctly, the general had led Virginian troops on his ill-fated attack.

“Nah. Great-Whatever-Grandpa was hit during the first day of the battle.”

“Oh,” Matt said. It was easy to see how Sandy got distracted into the gossipy side of history. Maybe he was interested in society gossip, too?

Matt decided to see. “Hey, Sandy, I’ve been hearing rumors about something weird going on among the diplomatic brats in town. Do you know anything about it?”

The other boy only shrugged, shaking his head. “My family doesn’t have much to do with the diplomatic corps,” he said. “Except my daddy made a bunch of money off some of them. He’s developing a gated community down by the Anacostia River. Thought there’d be a bunch of folks from Capitol Hill who’d move in. Instead, it’s, like, wall-to-wall ambassadors. Not that Daddy minds.” Sandy gave him a big, slow smile. “Money is money, no matter what country it comes from.”

At home after school, Matt tried to do some of the research for his joint paper with Sandy. But he kept slipping back to the list of ambassadors’ kids, as if just a little more study might unlock some hidden secret.

One thing he noticed was that the addresses seemed to clump together into two bunches, one in a zip code for Northwest Washington, the other in a zip code in the Southwest.

Matt knew that most of the embassies clustered in D.C.’s northwest corner. Could all these Southwest addresses represent foreign families who’d moved to the development Sandy had talked about?

Setting a search engine to work on the question, Matt was a little shocked at the number of hits that quickly showed up. He asked for an overview, and an article titled “Population Shift — Washington, D.C.” appeared in holoform over his computer console. Browsing through, Matt learned how the Federal Government and private developers had changed the face of the city over the years. One of the things that surprised him most was an old flatfilm picture taken less than a hundred years ago. It showed the dome of the Capitol Building rising over the backyard laundry of a beat-up wooden house that looked like something out of a hillbilly comedy.

Matt couldn’t believe that such an eyesore would have been tolerated on Capitol Hill. Now it was the site of an old office building and underground parking garage. Still, the area southwest of the Capitol had been home to very poor people for fifty years after that picture had been taken. Pockets of poverty had remained even after the turn of the century.

The article even showed pictures of the new gated community, a place called the Gardens at Carrollsburg, after an old town that existed there before the city of Washington had even been laid out. Matt had to laugh when he discovered that in later and poorer days the place had been called Buzzard Point.

He closed out the article, and had gone back to staring at the list of names when his computer began beeping — a file transfer was underway.

It was David, reporting in. His search for computer wizards among the diplomatic community had clicked with very few people on the list connected with Cat Corrigan. High on David’s computer-geek list was Sean McArdle, the Irish ambassador’s son. Matt noticed that he lived in the Gardens at Carrollsburg.

But it seemed that Caitlin didn’t get along with real hacker types.

Probably thinks of them being as Dexters, Matt thought, running down the list. There were just a couple of names, none of them in the top ten.

David included a news clip on how Gerald Savage boasted about being almost computer-illiterate. Apparently, that was a swipe at all the Irish programmers invading the British job market. David had thought it was pretty funny, but Matt wasn’t laughing. That sort of ignorance — and taking pride in it — was entirely in character for Gerry the Savage.

Matt frowned as he continued to study the two lists, plus the clip and head shot of Gerald Savage.

“Computer,” he suddenly said. “Prepare search engine Newshound. Search nonclassified media databases for any references to associates of Gerald Savage. Emphasis on violence and pranks. Sort by frequency of reference. Then compare with present lists.”

Sighing, Matt further ordered the computer to work in the background while projecting the datascrip Sandy Braxton had given him. Might as well get some reading done, Matt told himself. All that searching and sorting will take a long time.

Matt had moved on to doing homework when the computer beeped again. The job wasn’t done. Instead, it was Andy Moore sending an electronic file. Not surprisingly, Andy’s report was a lot more casual than David’s.

Matt was chuckling, shaking his head, when the computer beeped yet again.

A quick glance at the holo display showed that his search had been completed.

“Okay,” Matt muttered. “Let’s check out all these lists.”

It was like those Venn diagrams in school. While each suspect might have a wide circle of friends, Matt was only checking where those circles overlapped. There were still a lot of people, but there were a lot less.

Matt scowled. Andy’s list wasn’t too helpful after all. Both Gunter Mohler and Serge Woronov appeared on the Savage and Corrigan pal rosters.

Another name on both lists caught Matt’s attention. It seemed strangely familiar. “Computer,” he ordered. “Subject Lucien Valery. Recent media references.”

The computer holo flickered, then showed a story about a prank involving a local fencing instructor. The teacher had penalized a French fencer — Lucien Valery — while refereeing competition. When he went to drive home, the official had been caught by a dye bomb that marked his skin red, white, and blue — the colors of the French flag.

Valery had been suspected of setting the joke bomb, since he had a long history of pulling pranks. But nothing had been proven — perhaps because he was the son of a French diplomat. Anyway, the prank had backfired. Lucien Valery had lost a chance to try out for his country’s Olympic fencing team.

A Frenchman, Matt thought. If people wanted to use an insulting nickname, they’d call him a “Frog.”

Immediately, he thought of the six-foot frog who’d confronted him when he’d met the virtual vandals.

It couldn’t be — could it?

But then, Lucien Valery had shown himself to possess a weird sense of humor. When the frog had wanted to threaten him, it had changed into an old-time swordsman…and Lucien Valery knew how to use a sword.

Matt tried to remember what the swordsman had said. Had he spoken with a French accent? The fact was, Matt couldn’t remember. He’d been too distracted by the blade at his throat and the cartoon six-gun aimed at his head.

At least now he had a few new suspects to go after.

He also had a new idea. Jumping up, Matt headed for the phone. Maybe he could catch Captain Winters before he left his office for the day.

“Winters,” the captain’s voice said over the phone after Matt punched in the number.

“Sir, it’s Matt Hunter again. I was wondering about that trapdoor program you found. I’m sure you’ve had people taking it apart to see exactly how it ticked. Was there anything about it that might seem — well, foreign?”

“Still working on the theory these pranksters are diplomatic dependents, eh, Hunter?” Captain Winters sounded in a much better mood than the last time they’d talked. “Well, you may be a little disappointed at what the techs told me. The trapdoor we found in the press-conference program was developed on a cheap, bargain-store computer, by someone using obsolete programming tools. Doesn’t exactly sound like a rich and privileged diplo-brat, does it?”

“Um — I guess not,” Matt admitted.

“No.” The captain’s voice sounded a bit less smug as he went on. “That programming was as American — and as cheap — as mock apple pie.”