The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery, #1)

There’s a program on ClockServer1 — ClockConnect.exe It will open a private channel to Central where you can transmit data securely.

One last thing. I’ve collected a little money over the years, mostly from bad guys we put out of business. There’s another program on ClockServer1 — distribute.bat. It will disburse the money in my accounts.

I hope they never found this room and that you’re reading this letter in safety.

It has been my honor to serve with you.

David

____________________



Josh put the letter down.

He typed quickly on the keyboard, first uploading his data to Clocktower Central, then executing the bank transactions. “A little money” had been an understatement. Josh watched 5 transactions, all five million dollars each, go to first the Red Cross, then UNICEF, and three other disaster relief organizations. It made sense. But the final transaction didn’t. A deposit of five million dollars to a JP Morgan bank account in America — a New York branch. Josh copied the account holder’s names and searched. A man, 62, and his wife, 59. David’s parents? There was a news article — a piece in a Long Island newspaper. The couple had lost their only daughter in the 9/11 attacks. She had been an investment analyst at Cantor Fitzgerald at the time of the attacks, had recently graduated from Yale, and was engaged to be married to Andrew Reed, a graduate student at Columbia.

Josh heard it — or didn’t hear it — the torch had stopped. The ring was complete, and they were ramming the door, waiting for the metal to break free.

He gathered the papers, ran to the trash can and lit them on fire. He moved back to the table and opened the program that would erase the computer. It would take over five minutes. Maybe they wouldn’t find it. Or maybe he could buy it some time; he looked at the box with the gun in it.

Something else, on the screen, the location map. Josh thought he’d seen it — a flash, a red dot. But now it was gone. He stared again.

A boom, boom, boom at the door jolted Josh almost out of the chair. The men were beating on the door like a war drum, trying to make the thick iron come free. The pounding matched the throbbing in Josh’s chest as his heart beat uncontrollably.

The computer screen displayed the erase progress: 12% Complete.

The dot lit up for good: D. Vale. It drifted slowly, in the river. Vitals were faint, but he was alive. His body armor housed the sensors; it must have been damaged.

Josh had to send David what he’d found and a way to contact the source. Options? Normally they would establish an online dead-drop: a public web site where they exchanged coded messages. Clocktower routinely used eBay auctions — the pictures of the product for sale included embedded messages or files that a Clocktower algorithm could decrypt. To the naked eye, the picture looked normal, but small pixel changes throughout added up to a complex file Clocktower could read.

But he and David hadn’t established any system. He couldn’t call. Emailing would be a death sentence: Clocktower would monitor any email addresses, and when David checked it, Clocktower would trace the IP of the computer he used. The IP would give them a physical address, or a very close idea. Video surveillance feeds nearby would fill in the rest, and they would have him within minutes. An IP… Josh had an idea. Could it work?

Erasing… 37% Complete

He had to work fast, before the computer stopped functioning.

Josh opened a VPN connection to a private server he used mostly as a relay and staging area for online operations — transforming and bouncing encrypted reports around the internet before delivering them to Central. It was just added security to make sure Jakarta Station’s downloads to Central weren’t intercepted. It was off the grid, no one knew about it. And it already had several security protocols he’d written. It was perfect.

But the server didn’t have a web address — it didn’t need one — just an IP: 50.31.14.76. Web addresses like www.google.com, www.apple.com, etc really translated to IPs — when you type an address in your web browser, a group of servers called domain name servers (DNS), match the address to an IP in their database, and send you to the right place. If you typed the IP into your browser’s address bar, you’d actually end up in the same place without the routing; 74.125.139.100 opens Google.com, 17.149.160.49 opens Apple.com, and so on.

Josh finished uploading the data to the server. The computer was starting to run slowly. Several error messages popped up.

Erasing 48% Complete.

The drumming had stopped. They were using the torch again. A round bulge of strained metal had formed in the center of the door.

Josh had to send David the IP. He couldn’t call or text. All the sources and case officers would be monitored by Clocktower, and besides, he had no idea where David would end up. He needed somewhere David would look. Some way to send the numbers in the IP Address. Something only Josh knew about…