Teddy shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Means we’re limited to what people are actively keyboarding in real time. We can’t explore the system or access files—that would set off alarm bells—all we can do is follow keystrokes and mouse clicks from stations in the network, but at least we get all of them. That means, during normal work hours, anywhere between sixteen and twenty keyboards clacking away. A lot more data than can be followed by any single observer. So we’re feeding all the entries into a developing database, subdivided into categories of interest. Payroll, accounts receivable, inter-staff memos, gossip threads. Like that.”
“And any category or search term we care to add in the future?”
“Right, sure. No problem.”
“Dane? What’s our legal exposure on this?”
Our legal eagle rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Confined to prosecutable infractions.”
“Specifically exposure under the U.S. Criminal Code 1030, ‘Fraud and Related Activity in Connection with Computers’?”
“If you say so.”
Dane looks thoughtful, pursing her pretty, plumped lips like a small, dazzling tropical fish. Say a well-coiffed piranha. “I’d say, very serious exposure. Under subhead 5A, the language concerns harm done by unauthorized access of protected computer. So the key to staying out of jail is to do no harm. On the other hand, subhead 2 makes it illegal to obtain protected information from any department or agency of the United States. A zealous prosecutor might well argue that a private company with a contract from the Department of Defense falls under that umbrella. Basically, criminal liability depends on what you do with information obtained. Pass it on to a foreign agent, you’d be facing charges of espionage and/or treason for sure.”
Naomi nods and turns her head. “Teddy? Do you intend to pass information to a foreign agent?”
“No freakin’ way! Plus, what we’re looking at in the cyber mirror doesn’t include whatever system they have in the actual lab. We’re culling data from cubicle workers, not scientists. It’s strictly look, don’t touch.”
Dane remains mildly skeptical. “Then I suppose cogent arguments could be made in favor of the defendant, should an arrest occur. My humble opinion? If the worst happens, felony conviction remains a real possibility.”
Teddy sits up straight, adding about three inches in height. “You mean I might be a defendant?”
“Always possible, given what we do and who we do it to,” Naomi makes clear.
“Cool.”
“No, not cool. Unless by cool you mean you’ll take every precaution to make sure you won’t get caught.”
“Absolutely, that’s what I mean.”
“This isn’t a cybercafé. There will soon be powerful forces arrayed against us, if they’re not already in place.”
“I get it,” Teddy says, somewhat petulant.
Before he can be further cautioned, the swordfish swims onto our plates, and for a good ten minutes nobody says a word. A few moans of pleasure, but no actual words.
Our first-time guest Milton Bean, gingerly forking slices mouthward, continues to look pleasantly, not to say orgasmically, dumbfounded. Orgasmic in the foodie sense, of course. Dumbfounded in the oh-my-God-never-have-I-tasted-anything-as-divine-as-this sense. Not that he’s forgotten the price that must be paid for his presence at this table, and which Naomi is now poised to extract.
“I see you’re enjoying our little meal,” she observes. “Take my word, it only gets better. Mrs. Beasley’s homemade ice cream with ginger sauce has been known to make fully grown humans weep with pleasure.”
“I, um, can’t wait,” he says. Shrinking a little, aware what comes next.
Boss lady favors our guest with one of her cool, controlling smiles. “Mr. Bean, you have done exemplary work for us in the past, as a freelance operative, and given what you have been able to accomplish with so little muss and fuss, I certainly want the relationship to continue. However, we need to be assured that your particular talents will not put us in legal jeopardy. Your sponsor, Mr. Delancey, would have us believe you somehow melt through security by way of human camouflage. Or by borrowing Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility. Jack has read all the Potter books, by the way, because at heart he’s deeply romantic. Whereas I saw part of one movie and found it tedious, undoubtedly because I don’t believe in magic, and don’t want to, not even a little bit. To the contrary I believe in data, in facts on the ground and in the scientific method. Which made me wonder how you do it, how you manage to evade security wherever you happen to be assigned, even on very short notice. There being no satisfactory explanation, I have concluded that you are not, in fact, evading security.”
Milton flinches, ever so slightly.
“It seems very likely that you have in your possession valid identification that allows unfettered access to a variety of venues,” she continues, not simply a statement but a pronouncement of fact. “The possibilities are actually quite limited. You could be with the state police, FBI or IRS, any of which could get you through security in most places, but none of those agencies have you on any database we can find. So by a process of elimination, if you are not a card-carrying member of a government law enforcement agency, you must be affiliated with one of the major auditing firms. How am I doing, Mr. Bean?”
The Invisible Man couldn’t be more stunned if boss lady had firmly tapped him on the temple with a large rubber mallet. “How did you figure that out?” he finally manages to ask.
Naomi allows herself a small sniff of satisfaction. “Sheer surmise. No other explanation suffices. Publicly traded corporations are required to submit to unscheduled spot checks from auditing firms. That’s especially true of any company with Department of Defense contracts. Ergo.”
“Ergo?”
“Therefore, hence, it follows,” she says, defining the word with a thin, prim smile. “Fret not, Mr. Bean, your secret is safe with us, just as our secrets will be safe with you.”
Naomi doesn’t need to add any threatening qualifiers, like “on pain of death” or “on pain of never again being invited to share Mrs. Beasley’s cooking.” The Invisible Man, with a dip of his head, surrenders to her powers of deduction. Far from the first, unlikely to be the last.
“You got me,” he says, with a sigh that could be relief.
“Details, please.”
“Three years ago I was a forensic CPA with—” and he names one of the major national auditing firms, here redacted. “Your basic Mr. Bland with a calculator, making sure it all added up. That was my life. Checking the numbers, following the money. It was a career I chose, because it fit me. Milton Bean, CPA. Then in the course of my work I stumbled on this, um, let’s call it an elaborate scheme to divert revenue from one financial entity to another, and then another, round the world, for the purposes of avoiding taxes and as well as cheating the shareholders. I’d call it a musical-chairs variation on a Ponzi scheme, but virtually undetectable unless you happened to get lucky, which I did. In more ways than one. Much to my surprise, and very much to my boss’s surprise, I ended up as a whistle-blower, of a sort.”
“Meaning you didn’t blow it very loud.”
Milton Bean smiles, betraying, for the first time in our presence, a slight glow of personal pride. “As whistle-blowers go, I was very discreet. A tiny little tweet, you might say. There were several large financial corporations involved—of the too-big-to-fail variety—as well as long-standing complicity from my own firm at the very highest levels. Also, the likely failure of several highly leveraged institutions, and many innocent victims, if I testified. So we all came to a reasonable accommodation. The corporations agreed to make good on the taxes they had been avoiding, plus pay very substantial fines, and I received a generous cash settlement and also got to keep my job, with all the usual benefits. Except I draw no salary and never have to show up for work.”