Luca will be pissed — that means we have to get outside help. Probably from Knox Investigations or one of the other private firms in the city with a server big enough to run an algorithm program that can filter through the millions of possible password combinations until it finds the correct one to unlock the documents. My laptop’s small brain isn’t quite up to that challenge.
The only silver lining from my night spent as Cindy the cater-waiter is the fact that I managed to install my virus into the LC network before I got caught. The Clover. With each day that passes, the virus creeps a little further into their network, embeds itself a little deeper in the innermost workings of their computers. Reaching out in four directions, it then cloaks itself to blend in with the rest of their files — one tiny green blade, indiscernible from the zillion others in the field. My little emerald Trojan Horse.
It’s slow — painstakingly so — but I designed it that way on purpose. Any faster, a breach would be detected and I’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle. So, I sit on my hands and wait. And wait, and wait, until I’m practically pulling my hair out by the roots.
Day by day, my access increases. File by file, folder by folder, terminal by terminal, from the lower-level office where I planted my bug all the way up to Lancaster’s corner office. And the best part? It’s not just the documents saved to their hard drives.
With my virus, I can see emails. Inter-office chat windows.
Live communications between Lancaster and whoever he’s doing business with.
Almost a week after we went sailing, I’m eating peanut butter cups while I scroll rapid-fire through LC emails so boring they make episodes of Seventh Heaven seem dramatic, searching for anything that’ll help prove financial misconduct, when my eyes catch on something interesting.
An email from Robert Lancaster to his Head of Security.
Linus,
The workers from the Lynn factory are striking outside the corporate offices tomorrow. Press will be all over it. Make sure there’s adequate coverage for staff to enter and exit, but don’t interfere. They can chant until they lose their voices, wave their little picket signs until their arms fall off; it won’t change my mind. I’m not re-opening.
That said, did you handle the clean-up we discussed at the factory site?
Did the final transfer go smoothly with Birkin?
Let me know. The last thing we need is to give the fuckers grounds for a class action suit.
Bert
Okay, first of all, what self-respecting CEO goes by Bert? That’s just wrong. And secondly, besides the fact that he’s a total dick-wad for not giving a crap about his former employees, there’s clearly something else going on with the Lynn factory closing down. Something more than just budget cuts or moving jobs overseas to save some company cash.
“I’m going to find out exactly what,” I mutter, hitting a button to print out a copy of his email. “And use it to pin you to the wall, Bert.”
9
The Discovery
New England is known for many things — big lobsters, good clam chowder, bad accents, great movies, old Pilgrims, fantastic sports teams, terrible drivers.
It is not, however, known for its predictable weather.
So, when I step off the commuter rail in downtown Lynn the next morning and find it’s nearly sixty-five degrees only a handful of days before Christmas, I’m pleasantly surprised but certainly not shocked.
I strip off my bulky sweater and tuck it into my bag as I make my way across a busy four-lane highway toward the waterfront. This area could be — should be — beautiful. A long stretch of coastline just north of Boston, Lynn abuts some of the wealthiest towns in the entire state. And yet, corporate greed and shortsighted planning turned paradise into parking lots and factories. There are no boardwalks or beaches, here. Instead, the waterfront is jammed with row after row of industrial warehouses, used car lots, tattoo parlors, fast food joints, and bowling alleys.
Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, you’ll never get out the way you came in.
Everyone raised around here knows the anthem. And it’s true — not just when it comes to driving routes, either. Living here changes people. Makes them a little more bleary-eyed when they look at the world and its possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the gangs or the drugs or the total lack of aesthetics, but the entire town is corroding like a metal lawn chair left out in the rain.
It doesn’t surprise me in the least to know one of the factories here belongs to Richard Lancaster. He’s exactly the type to take something beautiful and turn it to trash, just for the sake of lining his own pockets.