Matt Griffin worked on the problem for an hour while Desh looked on patiently. As it neared lunchtime, Desh offered to go for takeout, an offer that Griffin readily accepted. Desh returned thirty-five minutes later carrying a paper sack containing a number of white, garden-variety Chinese takeout boxes and knocked on the door.
Griffin hurriedly undid the locks and opened the door with a broad, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his bearded face. “I did it,” he announced triumphantly.
“Fantastic!” said Desh, handing him the bag of Chinese food and shutting the door behind him. “What did you find?” he asked eagerly.
“You were right about her. She’s good. Very good.”
Griffin sat down at his desk chair and set the bag of food on the floor beside him. “If she really does have a background in biology rather than computers, I think she’s earned rookie of the year honors.”
Desh lifted the large wicker chair with one arm and moved it a few feet back so it was facing Griffin. Desh sat down, his eyes locked intently on the giant as he continued.
“It turns out that all three journals have a number of, ah . . . discount subscribers, shall we say, that they don’t know about. Somehow, considering the nature of these journals, that surprised me.”
“Didn’t think readers of such scholarly journals would engage in petty theft?”
Griffin nodded.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” said Desh cynically. “So how did you sort through them to find her?” he pressed, not allowing the discussion to become sidetracked.
“Two of the journals were being siphoned to the same e-mail address as of about ten months ago. No other stolen subscriptions among the three journals had the same signature.”
“Good work,” said Desh appreciatively. “Now tell me the bad news.”
“What makes you think there is any?”
“It couldn’t be this easy.”
Griffin smiled. “You’re right, as it turns out. It’s a dead end. She’s more sophisticated than I had guessed. The e-mailed journals are routed through an impenetrable maze of computers. Even someone better than me—if such a person existed,” he added, grinning, “wouldn’t be able to trace through all the relays to find her computer.”
Desh frowned. “At least we know she’s still alive.”
“And still keeping up on the latest research,” added Griffin.
Desh nodded at the bag of food. “Dig in,” he offered.
Griffin went to the kitchen and returned with large plastic forks and the biggest cardboard plates Desh had ever seen, with a cheerful, orange-and-yellow floral pattern printed on each one. He handed a fork and plate to Desh, and dumped two full containers of cashew chicken along with a container of white rice on his plate. Desh slopped half a box of beef broccoli onto his own plate with some rice, and began picking at it, while Griffin shoveled the food into his giant maw as rapidly as he had navigated the Web.
“You’ve done a nice job, Matt,” said Desh. “We’ve made faster progress than I expected. But this is about where I thought we’d end up.”
“So any ideas of where to go from here?”
Desh nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, yes. We can’t trace her through all her relays, but can we use them to contact her?”
Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Interesting thought.”
“Well?” pressed Desh.
“Sure. It would be easy. Just name your message and I’ll send it,” he offered helpfully.
Desh held up a hand. “Not just yet,” he said. “I’d like to ping her first. Send in some tracking software that she’ll detect and defeat.”
“To what end?”
“So she knows someone’s out there turning over this particular rock looking for her.”
“You sure that’s a good idea? It gives her a warning. Also, it’s in her best interest to have as much information as possible about whoever is pursuing her. If I were her, I’d trace the ping back to us.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Desh with a thin smile. He rose and lifted his black laptop off the corner of Griffin’s desk. “I want you to set everything up on my laptop, so when she does trace the ping, she traces it back to me.” He paused. “Assuming she doesn’t already know my identity and that I’m after her. I wouldn’t rule that out,” he added warily. “Set up software that will watch for a breach and record everything possible about its source. I also want you to plant a tracer, so if she does invade my computer, it can latch on and follow the breadcrumb trail back to her.”
“She’ll be expecting that. I’ll try to plant a red herring for her to find and then a more subtle tracking program, but I suspect I won’t fool her.” Griffin shrugged. “Worth a try though,” he acknowledged.